


Actuarial Risk

by doomed_spectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And why they are important, Apologies to Shakespeare, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Communication Failure, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Names, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Trapped In A Closet, but not that slow, it's not a major plot point but it's there, kindof, lots of talking and some of it's dirty, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: A. Z. Fell, principle salesman for Silver City Financial, never paid much attention to his company's main competition, Fourth Circle, LLC. That is, until he met Anthony Crowley. When the rivalry between their respective head offices heats up, they make an arrangement both know is unsustainable.A rival salesman AU with hijinks, fluff, misunderstandings, and a happy ending.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 207
Kudos: 235
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *nervous laughter*  
> Hello yes, this is the rival salesman AU no one asked for. I'm not sure why I started writing it but it grabbed me and next thing I knew, I'd written 4 chapters. 
> 
> Ever worked for a company you really believed in and then started having doubts about its commitment to the mission? Or felt like you were literally chained to your job and couldn't leave? Me too! So I'm writing this to deal, I guess.
> 
> NOTE: This is based on my experience with the US insurance market, which as we all know, is absolutely bonkers. I've tried to make it generic enough that it blends with the English elements of GOmens.

_**Actuarial Risk: The risk that the basic underlying assumptions a company has made (in setting policy rates) are wrong.**_

"I said oat milk, dammit! I can't digest this shit, get it out of here!" 

Crowley raised an eyebrow as the angry voice drifted into the corridor. Great. He'd psyched himself up for this meeting, but couldn’t say it’d been all that effective. Positive affirmations. Repeating _you are not your job_ and _you are worthwhile as a person_ three times in the mirror every day like a comedy sketch come to life was all well and good but it didn't stop him from shuddering at the sound of this prick's voice. He took a deep breath to slow his heart rate and took a moment to mentally run through his pitch again. Polished his slightly-tinted glasses. He’d mostly chilled out when a harried-looking woman rushed past him with the offending drink in her hand.

"You can go in," she said over her shoulder. He sighed. Might as well get this over with.

The potential client was all smiles to Crowley. He slapped him on the back a little too hard and spoke to him as if they were old pals. Crowley slipped into his sales persona like a second skin. He hated every second of it, but it worked. The highly compensated man with anger management issues and money to spend on an expensive insurance policy was on board. Crowley shook the man's hand and then fought the urge to wipe it on his trousers. It would be a good commission and it's not like he had any choice but to sell to the man.

As he left the conference room, a bad taste in his mouth, he noticed a man with white-blonde hair sitting primly outside in the chair he'd occupied earlier. He raised his eyebrows and gave the man a small nod in acknowledgement. He had a leather briefcase on his lap that looked like something a stylish gentleman of the 1930s would've taken on a leisure cruise. His clothes were varying shades of cream and tan, stylish enough but old fashioned in a way that made Crowley want a martini. The man smiled at him cheerfully, despite the fact that Crowley was clearly going for the same commission he was, and Crowley almost tripped over his own feet. The man was attractive enough, but when he smiled it was like his entire face lit up like a sunbeam.

As Crowley made his way down the hall, he heard the beleaguered assistant usher the other sales rep in. He had his hand on the door to the stairwell when the CEO's voice called out angrily. "I don't care if they only had almond milk! I said _oat milk_! What are you, _stupid_?" 

Crowley winced and practically sprinted down the stairs. He was halfway down when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Hastur. He paused for a moment to mentally prepare himself for wherever his Regional Sales VP was going to throw at him. Today was shaping up to be quite the day for verbal abuse. "Hastur! Good morning," he said, keeping his voice light. The conversation went downhill from there.

By the time he had descended enough flights of stairs to reach the lobby, he was stretched thin. Outside the building, threatening storm clouds had appeared while he'd been with the client and enduring the call from his boss. Great. He stood at the wall-to-ceiling windows looking out at the busy street. Tourists and other city-dwellers rushed past, fighting for space on the sidewalk.

The lift doors opened behind him and the old-fashioned man in the cream suit exited. He crossed the lobby and stood next to Crowley at the windows. They both looked out at the gathering storm.

"Well that went down like a lead balloon," Crowley muttered.

The man beside him chuckled, then looked confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

He cleared his throat. Why had he started talking with this cheerful stranger, only to say something completely idiotic? Because he's gorgeous and he smiled in a way that made Crowley's shriveled little heart beat in a way it hadn't in years, that's why. He convinced himself to continue talking even though it felt like his tongue was doing very weird things in his mouth.

"I said, that went down like a lead balloon. My pitch, that is." He inclined his head to the elevator, worrying that the man hadn't even noticed they'd met with the same client.

Understanding bloomed over the white-haired stranger's face. He'd make a terrible poker player, Crowley thought; his face was ridiculously expressive. For a fleeting second, Crowley wondered what it'd look like under more _intimate_ circumstances. He looked away quickly, locking that thought away deep in the basement of his mind, where useless dreams were safely stored.

"Ah," the man said, "well I'm sure it can't have been that bad. You're from Fourth Circle? They have quite the reputation."

Shit. Yes, yes they did. And like it or not, Crowley had that same reputation. He couldn't help a grimace. "Oh, I dunno, the boss just told me to go make some trouble. So here I am.” He put on what he hoped was more like a devilish grin than whatever his face had been doing before. “New territory."

"Indeed. Well, best of luck." The man’s face was all smiles and warmth. Looking at him felt like the sun finally coming out after a long day of clouds.

"So, uh, how did yours ... ?" Crowley asked. He didn't have a template for this. He was absolutely sure his superiors had never stopped to chat with a competing salesman, let alone asked them how their pitch had gone.

"Oh, no, well actually," he stammered. Before he looked away, the barest hint of a blush appeared on his cheeks. It was the most charming thing Crowley had seen in years. "I turned it down. The sale."

"You _what_?"

"I turned it down," he said, and his voice took on a plaintive quality that would have been irritating on anyone else but this utterly sincere man.

Crowley stared at him. A thousand thoughts swam about in his mind, but none were coherent enough to make it to the surface. He stared at the beautiful white-haired man with his mouth open like a fool. _He'll be the death of me_. He thanked the God he didn't believe in he'd managed to avoid saying that one out loud.

"You heard how awful the CEO was to his secretary! She was only trying to help and so what if she made a mistake, no one deserves to be treated that way," the man said, his voice gaining confidence as he rambled. "So I said, no thank you, take the RFP and put it, well, you know, somewhere the sun doesn't shine. We don't do business with unkind clients." His fingers were twisting around a golden ring he wore on his left hand. Crowley was relatively certain it wasn't a wedding band since it was on his pinky. He hoped it wasn't. 

Crowley realized he still hadn't said anything and his mouth was open. He shut it and cocked an eyebrow.

"I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

"I won't tell," Crowley said. Then he winked. Dear Lord, he actually winked.

"Oh, thank you," the man said, appearing actually relieved.

Crowley brought out his phone and summoned an Uber. He needed the ride since his beloved car was waiting on a part, but also he needed just as badly to stop staring at this ridiculous, beautiful man. They both stepped through the revolving glass doors and the man waved at several passing taxis without success. As soon as his ride was confirmed, the rain started in earnest. Crowley muttered a series of incoherent curses under his breath.

The man retrieved a white umbrella from his briefcase and turned to Crowley. Seeing that he was without one, the stranger smiled and moved it over, covering Crowley with no regard to himself.

"I- you don't have to- I mean-"

"Nonsense. I'm not going to let you get soaked just because you're the competition," he said, with a kind smile.

Crowley shook his head. "You're a literal angel," he said, and wondered immediately where that came from.

The man chuckled. "Perish the thought."

A blue sedan with an Uber logo pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and the driver said, "Ride for Anthony?" Crowley nodded to the driver but otherwise didn't move.

"Well perhaps I'll see you again, umm, Anthony-"

"Crowley. Anthony Crowley, but, uh, just Crowley is-" he stammered his way through something he hoped resembled a sentence that would result in the man knowing his name was Crowley, not Anthony. Though _why_ exactly he wanted so badly for this man he’d talked to for all of five minutes to know his name was a mystery.

"Crowley. Perhaps we'll meet again." He smiled that smile again and Crowley was overwhelmed by the pure sunshine of it.

The driver honked and Crowley returned to earth. He managed a smile in return and perhaps even said something like, "till next time, angel" but wasn't entirely sure. 

He got in the car with a wave, purposefully not looking back. He didn't hear the driver confirming his destination or the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the car over his heart pounding in his ears. As they pulled away from the curb, he looked in the side mirror. The man with white-blond hair stood with his umbrella still not covering his own head, that sweet smile on his face. He’d given up a sizable commission from a jerk just because it was the right thing to do. Crowley shook his head. Even if he never saw the angel with the umbrella again, he'd lightened the weight from Crowley's shoulders and he’d ride that wave of goodness as long as it lasted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for stuffing DC comics and Dante references in the same fic. It's fun, though? I have no excuses.

Zariah was running late. He huffed, puffed, and did a little jog to make it to the reception desk of Jasmine Real Estate, LLC. Catching his breath as he checked in with Molly at the desk, he asked how her aging dachshunds were faring. He tried to be punctual as a rule, but had a tendency to get lost in a book. Or many books. He'd accidentally missed his train station while engrossed in a fascinating science fiction novel. It wasn't his usual taste but his book club had insisted on choosing a tale of star-crossed time traveling lovers.

Molly handed him a visitor's badge and he turned to sit in one of the chairs in the waiting area. As he pinned on the badge, disrupting the baby blue pocket square he'd chosen to pair with his ivory suit jacket, he heard a familiar drawl. 

In his frazzled state, he could've sworn he heard Crowley say, "Hello again, angel!" That couldn’t possibly be right. While trying not to trip over his own feet or stab himself with the safety pin on his badge, Zariah smiled and said a vague hello.

"I'd written this one off, seeing as it's Silver City's client, but now that I know it's yours, maybe I have a chance," Crowley said, with a confident smirk.

Zariah bristled. "I won't be giving this one up, Crowley. I'm not an idiot, I just have principles." He straightened up to his full height, which made him almost eye to eye with Crowley’s greyish tinted glasses. Zariah wondered if he had a medical condition or if he just didn’t want to give away his expression. Salesmen were superstitious, but that seemed like going a bit far.

Crowley made a series of noises that weren't exactly words. It was incredibly charming but not very effective at actually communicating. "Right. Good," he finally managed to get out. "Figured they'd just be using me as a tool to get some glorious new rates from you, but maybe I'll actually follow up. Go hard for the sale."

"Glorious, right. Tool, yes," Zariah said, like an absolute idiot.

Crowley just shifted his weight back and forth on his heels, clicking his teeth. "Not that I want to steal all your commissions out from under you, but that's the job, eh angel?"

Oh dear Lord, did he say  _ angel _ again? Zariah knew he wasn't mistaken this time. He'd been given a pet name after a chance meeting that lasted all of ten minutes by a salesman for his chief rival. His cheeks were hot, which meant he must be blushing like a schoolboy. How did Crowley get under his skin like this? And why did it make him want to stand here and be teased all day?

He straightened his jacket while he regained his composure, though he knew it was fine. After a moment, he could've kicked himself. Crowley wasn't flirting at all, he just didn't know-

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharply-dressed woman opening the interior door. Her eyes lit up when they saw him, then her eyebrows rose when she saw Crowley. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, but he could guess and frankly, he agreed. The red-haired man somehow looked perfectly professional and absolutely stunning in a black suit with a black undershirt and charcoal patterned tie. His hair was longer than Zariah remembered, falling almost to his shoulders. Today he'd left it loose in waves and Zariah wanted nothing more than to run his hands through it while kissing him senseless. 

He composed himself. Again. That was no way of thinking about a fellow professional. Not without getting into a fair bit of trouble. Crowley was trouble, all right. His smirking lips and the playful tilt of his head had trouble written all over.

"Anthony! Lovely to see you. Come on in," she said, smiling at Zariah. Sonja. Her name was Sonja and he'd known her for years. Focus on the loyal client, not the devilishly attractive man who was definitely  _ not _ flirting with his competition.

He smiled at her, then turned to nod his goodbye to Crowley. His eyebrows had risen so high they were visible above his glasses. He looked shocked, but in an amused sort of way. Oh, right. Bugger.

"Ah, yes, well you see, I'm also called, umm-" he said, eloquently. No one except clients called him Anthony. People he didn't know personally and didn't intend to know well enough to call him by his chosen name. He swallowed.

Crowley saved him by interrupting. "Well then. Till next time,  _ Anthony, _ " he said. And then he was grinning. Oh, that grin! So toothy and full of mirth. That teasing mouth. Trouble, indeed.  _ He'll be the ruin of me _ . Thank God he managed not to say that out loud.

He forced himself to smile back and follow Sonja through the door to the meeting room. When he exited afterwards, Anthony Crowley was gone.

\---

Zariah sought out Anathema in the office break room the next day. She smiled and set aside the paperback she'd been reading as he sat next to her. Most of the other sales staff wouldn't be caught dead in the common kitchen, with its hard plastic chairs, cheesy motivational posters, and dubious microwave smell. But he liked the idea of fitting in with the rest of the workers and it was usually quiet enough to sit and read. And the view from the floor to ceiling windows was stunning, even if it rained half the time.

He opened his bento box and inhaled, closing his eyes for maximum effect. Anathema chuckled but didn't tease. She'd known him since she joined the company several years ago, and was one of the few people who'd never mocked his eccentricities.

Satisfied, he broke apart his chopsticks and said, "Do you know anything about Fourth Circle?" He tried to sound casual but his heart was beating a little faster than usual.

"Why, looking to jump ship?" She eyed him, curious but not judgemental.

"No, of course not," he said quickly, looking around to see who was in the lunchroom with them. Luckily it was nearly deserted, even at noon. Ever since a Chipotle had opened downstairs the sack lunch crowd had thinned. "Don't even say that. I'm completely loyal to Silver City Financial. I'm just curious, that's all."

"Mmmhmmm." She didn't sound convinced.

"I've run into a rep of theirs and I figure I should get to know them. The company. Get to know the company. If they're going to be expanding into my territory." 

Right, the company. The competition he'd never paid much attention to if he could help it. He'd been content to help his clients and go home to his books. And if he'd been lonely, that was buried easily enough under flights of fancy driven by the imaginations of authors he dreamed about meeting. But he couldn't stop thinking about the rakishly good-looking salesman from Fourth Circle who shared his name and the antipathy he felt for it.

"Makes sense, I guess," she said, snapping him back to his surroundings. "Obviously there was that business with Morningstar, but that was a long time ago. And you'd know more about Morningstar than I would. As for anything recent, all I know is what I've heard."

"Oh? And?"

"They're supposedly pretty cutthroat. Ruthless."

He frowned. Crowley had been so friendly and open. But he supposed that could have been an act, to try and lure him into giving away information. He'd wanted to believe Crowley was genuine, though. Wanted to believe he was being friendly not just to a fellow sales rep, but to  _ him _ specifically.

Anathema leaned in. "I hear they practically torture their employees if they don't meet production." She made a disgusted face.

"Oh dear. Well it can't be all that bad, I suppose?"

"I don't know, Z, they're just as large as we are. They must be doing something, right?"

"Well I believe they've been around the industry almost as long as we have. Given the whole Morningstar business." Both of them lowered their voices instinctively as they said the word Morningstar. It was ancient history as far as Zariah was concerned, but executive leadership was still touchy about it. He made it a habit not to think about or mention the fall of Silver City’s largest client or the rupture it had caused.

"Yeah."

They were silent for a few moments. Anathema scraped the bottom of her yogurt cup with her spoon and licked off the last bit of nonfat strawberry banana parfait. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "The other thing is, somehow they've managed to become very cool and we're definitely not."

"What do you mean?"

"They've got a whole branding and social media team and we, well I mean, no offense to Al, but," she said, looking over at Al's cubicle. He sat hunched over a ham sandwich reading the cartoon strips from last week's papers. "He can write a sentence and that's good, I guess, but like, it's actually not? Not for a social media guy."

Zariah pursed his lips. He'd always found Al's internet posts to be rather nice and quite accurate.

"Fourth Circle, though? They're always like, feuding with Arby's on Instagram or whatever. Look at this," Anathema said, handing over her phone. "They just got retweeted by Satan. That's hilarious, and not to mention, actually effective with a younger demographic."

"And is that what we're about? Likes and twitters?" He knew his voice was getting higher as he got more sanctimonious, but didn't really care. "I was under the impression that our products helped people financially during very difficult times in their lives."

"Oh, Z, you're just old fashioned," she said, but with a kindness in her voice. "It's nice, though. That you still believe in the mission."

"I suppose I must do," he said, with a smile that was at least half genuine. He'd had doubts about the mission of the company under current management but now was not the time or place to bring it up.

"It's not like you to worry about the competition, Z. You've been doing this such a long time ... Is Gabriel getting on your case?"

"No, nothing like that." He felt his cheeks getting hot. He didn't want to lie to her, but couldn't exactly explain that he wanted ... What, exactly? To know more about their company’s competitor so he could put himself in a position to see a rival sales agent who happened to be very handsome? So the man working in direct opposition to his interests would call him  _ angel _ again? He was being ridiculous.

"Good. Gabriel can be such a bully sometimes."

Zariah nodded but tried not to show his agreement too enthusiastically. Not in such a public place. 

"So what, then? Not like you to be thrown by a new rep in your territory, either." 

No, no it wasn't. He remembered Crowley's shocked face when he'd given up the sale the first time they'd met. He'd looked at Zariah like it was the first time he'd ever seen someone act on principles even if it meant going against their own self interest. What had happened to him at Fourth Circle that made him so jaded? And why did Zariah care?

"No, I suppose not. But it wouldn't do to get complacent. It's probably a good thing this new rep is around. To keep me on my toes." He tried to look reassuring and confident. 

Anathema seemed satisfied, and they chatted about other things. The disastrous new IT guy, for one, and Anathema's disappointing love life for another. Zariah couldn't help but wonder if those two topics were related, but didn't press her on it. After all, who was he to talk? Getting a crush on a handsome salesman he'd only met twice and may never see again? No, he was certainly in no position to say anything to anyone about romance. He'd have to be content with life as it was. 

And yet somehow he'd known the moment he'd met Anthony Crowley that he'd never be content with life as it was. Before the mysterious man with a crooked grin had called him an angel and set his world on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes seriously the crack theory that the “A” in “A.Z. Fell” stands for Anthony, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale told each other their names till Crowley showed up in 1941 because they’re (lovable) idiots. I believe this originated w/a Tumblr post by Neil Gaiman, but it spiraled, as these things do.
> 
> Zariah is traditionally a girls’ name, but Zariah chose it for reasons he’ll explain later. Names are powerful things, and when yours doesn’t fit you, it hurts. It’s like a pebble in your shoe that you can’t root out until you grow a new skin.
> 
> [This is the time traveling agents who fall in love book.](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43352954-this-is-how-you-lose-the-time-war) You should read it! It's so good! The agents are on opposite sides of a war but they love each other ... relevant to GO fans interests, methinks ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley was returning to his spot with an undoubtedly terrible free coffee when he spotted a very anxious-looking bunch clustered around the Silver City booth. The printed sign above the booth looked the same as all the others at the product fair, including his. But everything else on the table, from the giant monitor displaying a blue screen of death to the hopeless tangle of cords connecting several blank-screened laptops appeared to be either malfunctioning or missing. He took a sip and approached.

"What's the matter, angel?"

"Oh Crowley! Oh dear," the man he now knew was _also_ named Anthony exclaimed, clasping his hands in front of him. He stood mostly still but managed to vibrate with nervous energy. He was dressed in a tan cardigan over a white button-up today, with formal tan slacks and brown shoes. He looked a bit like a classics professor or bookbinder, rather than a salesman for a giant corporation. "Well, you see, we, umm, that is, well." He turned to his companions, a long-haired young woman in a flowy dress and a harried-looking nerd, for help.

"Things aren't exactly going as planned. Who are you?" the woman said, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses. She was pretty, sortof, and very direct. Crowley liked her already.

"Anthony Crowley, at your service." He held out his hand and she shook it warily. He glanced over to the angel, who was smiling nervously. How could someone look so attractive and so nervous at the same time?

"Anathema Device. This is our IT guy, Newt," she said, tilting her head to the scrambled-looking man behind the table. He was unplugging cords and plugging them back in, seemingly at random. He waved.

The angel's phone dinged. He made an adorable little "oh!" sound while he unclasped it from the holder at his waist. Crowley tried not to let his eyes wander down to the curve of the man's hips, but they did. The jumper he was wearing looked ridiculously soft and Crowley wanted nothing more than to squeeze this man's plump side with his fingers. He snapped back to attention when the phone dinged a second time and Crowley realized it was an ancient flip phone.

His lips curled into a smile as he watched the other man navigate the phone's menu. He glanced at Anathema and noticed she was smiling at the man fondly as well. He should be ridiculous. Looking like a stressed out librarian and squinting at a twenty year old phone. And yet something about him made Crowley want to wrap his long arms around his middle and never let go.

"What is it, Z?" Anathema asked.

The man's forehead pinched and when he frowned it was like storm clouds had appeared on the horizon of his face. He pocketed his phone and said, "Nothing. Well, it was rather a rude note from Gabriel. That's all."

Crowley felt an immediate distaste for whoever this Gabriel person was. Anyone who took the smile off this man's face would reside permanently in Crowley's bad books. He leaned closer and cautiously put his hand on the man's shoulder.

"What's the situation, angel?"

"Well you see, umm, the screens are, and the portable computers, well," he said, fidgeting with the ring on his pinky.

Anathema took over. "The screen reset and the laptops either won't charge or won't boot up, I don't know why. Newt got here and all of a sudden everything crashed." Newt had the good sense to look chagrined at that.

"Oh! But! Anathema has a file on this finger device-"

"Thumb drive, Z, it's a thumb drive."

"Right. But we have no way of printing anything. To use as a backup in case young Newt can't get the technology up and running."

Crowley listened, then turned to Anathema for a translation.

"I was able to connect my laptop to a mobile hotspot long enough to transfer a JPG of the one-pager, but we don't have a printer and my connection isn't strong enough to use it to cast the screen onto this big one," she explained. She was clearly the brains of this operation and the most technologically savvy. And yet the nerdy guy in the rainbow tie was the tech support? Typical.

"Let me get this straight. You have a booth at a trade fair with no information about your products or any way for potential customers to contact you. And you have back up fliers you can't print."

The angel's face fell. Crowley wanted nothing more than to fling his arms around the man and kiss him until he smiled again. Right. Tossing that thought aside, he sprang into action. If there was one thing Crowley thrived on other than self-doubt, it was chaos. "You, what was your name? Gadget?"

"Device."

"Right, Device. Hand over the thumb drive.” He pointed at the useless but pleasant-looking man behind the counter. “You, IT lad, you stay exactly where you are and don't touch anything." The woman stared at him like he had grown an additional head, but handed over the USB stick. The hapless tech support lad had the good sense to stay where he was and not touch anything. "Angel, you're coming with me."

"What?"

"We're going to Kinkos. There's one a few blocks from here, come on."

"But-"

"Trust me and let’s go! Or do you want this Gabriel fellow to find out you've bungled Silver City's booth at a large products fair right at the end of the fiscal quarter? Eh?" He raised his eyebrows to make his point and grabbed the man's hand.

"But I don't _drive_ , Crowley," he said, practically wailing in distress.

"Don't worry angel, I'll give you a ride." He grinned. This day just kept getting better.

Crowley led the way through the maze of booths and outside to where he’d parked his pride and joy. As they approached, he realized he was still holding the other man’s hand and let go with a pang of regret. He gestured at the sleek lines and shiny polish of his vintage Bentley. 

The man Crowley now solely thought of as _angel_ made the appropriate _oohs_ and _ahhs_ as they climbed inside. He ran his hands affectionately over the steering wheel and made a silent plea to his car not to embarrass him by unexpectedly playing awkward music or worse, driving too slowly.

When they arrived at the Kinkos a few streets over, Crowley didn't comment on his passenger's white knuckle grip on the handle. He bounced out of the driver's side and held open the door. For some reason, the angel's legs seemed wobbly as he exited, so he held out his arm for balance.

They approached the teen at the counter. "Hello," the angel said, in a voice that dripped with honey. "I'm in need of assistance with a thumb file." He beamed at the kid as if a sunshine smile would make him understand that mangled direction.

Crowley gently pushed the man aside and said, low in his ear, "Let me handle this." He held out the thumb drive. "Kinko's kid: Take the last modified file on the main directory of this and make 200 8x10s on plain printer stock." The kid took the USB stick and nodded.

"Thank you, Crowley, truly."

He swallowed and tried to ignore the way his entire face and neck flushed at hearing those words from this man's lips. 

"Don't say that," he answered, looking away and shoving his hands in his pockets. He'd worn a charcoal button-up with a thin tie and very tight black jeans today, so his hands stuck out awkwardly and his attempt to look casual completely failed. 

"If my lot find out I've rescued a rep from Silver City, _I'll_ be the one in trouble." He looked down over his sunglasses to make the point. _And my lot do not send rude notes_. If Hastur found out he'd bailed out the team from Silver City, he'd be out on his ass in no time flat. Not only that, but he'd never work in this town again. 

"Well, I'm grateful all the same." He gave Crowley a small smile and somehow Crowley thought maybe he really did understand. 

"Here you go, man." The Kinkos kid shoved a stack of paper at them. The flyer design wasn't half bad: simple graphic design with plenty of white space and a clear font.

"Hey, kid, can you cut this bottom part off and make a poster? If the file quality is good enough?" Crowley asked.

The teen rolled his eyes, as if Crowley had just asked if he could breathe, but returned to the back counter to do as requested. He folded his arms and put up a warning finger when it looked like another effusive "thank you" was forthcoming.

Instead, the angel took the hint. He pursed his lips and changed direction. "You know, I have another thing to thank you for that isn't related to Silver City at all."

Crowley made a curious noise and tilted his head.

"You didn't call me _Anthony_ ," he said. "It's my legal name but it's not _me_. Zariah. That's- well, Zariah is who I am to those I care to know." He gave Crowley a look that told Crowley exactly how much he was exposing by telling him this. There were feelings behind this look.Zariah was being vulnerable by telling him this and Crowley had the fierce urge to protect this man’s feelings at any cost. He opened his mouth but wasn't sure what would come out if he started talking.

"Course. 's no problem, angel," was what managed to get out.

Anathema and Newt greeted them like conquering heroes when they returned with flyers and a halfway decent poster. Crowley steadfastly refused to participate in the high fives that went around but he couldn't help a smile as the group cheered. He tried to imagine Ligur or any of his other coworkers giving him a high five. The thought was ghastly enough to give him chills.

"Zariah, can you help Newt? I think he's tangled in the power cords. Thanks," Anathema said. Zariah hurried over to the hapless tangled man. With Zariah and Newt occupied and Zariah's back turned, she gave Crowley a meaningful look.

"What?" he said, putting his hands up.

She raised her eyebrows at him but didn't say anything. Then, very deliberately, she handed him a piece of paper. 

Oh. Crap. He pocketed it and tried not to meet her eyes. She was looking at him so intensely he had to look away. 

"Well, I think that's settled," Zariah said. He beamed at them with that smile that could light up a stadium. 

A woman in a nice sweater paired with slacks approached the table. She held a very slick tan leather satchel Crowley admired, wondering if it came in black. He watched Zariah chat with her, explaining Silver City's products and asking about her current coverage. He looked relaxed and happy. His hands fluttered about in front of his body as he talked and little happy wrinkles appeared on either side of his deep blue eyes. Crowley had pegged him as a terrible salesman but he realized he was wrong. Zariah was the type of salesman he could never be: one with absolute belief in the products he sold. But instead of the urge to mock him for his sincerity, Crowley felt a deep yearning. For Zariah himself, sure, but also for the certainty he sensed the other man felt about his place in the world.

Zariah caught his eye as the woman tucked a flyer into her bag. The smile he gave Crowley was smaller, more intimate. His lips were closed and his cheeks dimpled. Crowley flushed. Thoughts flooded his brain that he struggled to lock away. That smile with those dimpled cheeks greeting him when he opened his eyes first thing in the morning. Zariah handing him a cup of coffee, dressed only in a nightshirt and slippers. Sitting side by side on the patio, him reading the newspaper while Crowley scrolled through headlines on his phone. He blinked and the moment was gone. 

"Right, then. Ciao," he said and turned away from the Silver City booth before any of them could say another word.

He snaked through the crowds to his own booth. The Fourth Circle designers had wanted a setup similar to Silver City's, but Crowley had convinced them to add a VR headset with a fun game that transitioned into a maudlin story designed to remind potential customers of their own mortality. It was a morbid thing for a life insurance company to do, but it worked. 

If the line at his booth was any indication, Crowley's minor act of treason that morning wouldn't be noticed. He might even get a commendation from Hastur. Imagine that. Crowley grinned to himself. He'd rescued an angel, flustered an IT department dork, and pulled off a successful product fair. He made his way behind the booth and snapped at a group of unruly teens hogging the headset.

It was then that he remembered the slip of paper in his pocket. Shit. It'd been ages since he'd had to explain that a) he wasn't interested in dating right now, b) even if he was, he definitely couldn't date someone from a company that directly competed with his, and c) he was absolutely not, in any way shape or form, straight. 

Before tossing it, he glanced at the card; it was a standard business card with the name "A.Z. Fell, Principle Salesman, Silver City Financial" stamped in ornate, gold-foil letters. His heart leapt into his throat. Holy shit. He wiped a hand across his face and carefully placed the card in his snakeskin billfold. She'd given him such a significant look before handing him this, he'd assumed it was hers, but the angel's contact information was staring him in the face. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Kinkos doesn't exist anymore? Must be showing my age - it's a place to make copies/posters, things like that.
> 
> Aziraphale looking like a classics professor is, of course, a reference to the wonderful ongoing fic Car Trouble by summerofspock, and Aziraphale as a bookbinder is Petrichor & Parchment by MrsNoggin. Those are both such great AUs that you should read immediately if you haven't already.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Gabriel. Ever had a boss that mispronounced or misspelled your name, no matter how many times you politely tried to correct them? Yeah, that's Gabriel.

"Anthony!" 

"Oh Gabriel, hello," he said, forcing his grimace into a smile. The imposing man clapped Zariah on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“You remember Sandalphon?”

"Of course. Mr. Sandalphon," Zariah said. He nodded to the accountant that had always reminded him more of a tank than a person rightly should.

"I have to say, Fell, I was worried you were losing your touch after the fallout from Eden Ventures, but then I got a call from-" Gabriel snapped his fingers and scrunched his face, looking to Sandalphon for answers. "Sandy? Sally? Whatever, over at Jasmine Real Estate?'

"Sonja," Zariah added, with a tight smile.

Gabriel snapped his fingers again, uncomfortably close to Zariah's face.

"That's it. Sonja! Anyway, had nothing but nice things to say about you," he said, and somehow this made Zariah feel ill rather than proud. "Must've worked some kind of magic on her, eh?" Gabriel poked him in the ribs with his elbow and leered. Sandalphon just chuckled.

"Well," he said, smoothing the front of his waistcoat, "Sonja is a longtime client, and I'm glad to hear she's satisfied with our service. I’m looking forward to working with her for another year." He actually did feel a bit of pride at that, and tried to let it show on his face, rather than annoyance at having this conversation. Gabriel and Sandalphon were blocking the elevator though, so he had very little choice but to continue until they let him go.

Gabriel made a finger gun and pointed it at him. "This guy! So humble," he said. His boss’s face managed to be both sincere and smarmy at the same time. The man was handsome, but that somehow made his demeanor even worse. "I heard you had to scare off a Fourth Circle jerk to keep her. Good job Fell, really, excellent work." 

Zariah started, trying not to show his reaction to hearing Crowley called a jerk. If he only knew how kind Crowley had been, and that Zariah would much rather be speaking to him right now... "Yes well, that's the job,” he said, in a chipper tone he really didn't feel.

"Indeed," Sandalphon said, finally adding something to the conversation.

"Right. These guys," Gabriel said, indicating both of them, "know where it's at. Can't let a single penny slip from our side to Fourth Circle! Isn't that right, Fell?" His voice was far too cheerful and slightly too loud, especially since they were standing in a hallway where virtually anyone at Silver City could’ve overheard.

"Of course," Zariah said, with a gulp.

"Can't trust those bastards! You remember Morningstar, don't you?" Gabriel looked directly at Zariah. "We've been keeping an eye on their field agents ever since."

"Oh?" Zariah's voice came out squeaked, but Gabriel didn't seem to notice.

"Oh yeah. Which one'd you go up against?" He folded his arms and furrowed his brow. Gabriel’s suit was well-tailored and looked incredibly expensive, but it also emphasized the man’s bulk in a way that made it clear how much of any given room he intended to take up. Zariah had learned about dressing to intimidate in a company-mandated training session, but had politely declined to take their advice. He was comfortable in his own style, old-fashioned as it may be. With Gabriel positioned in front of him like a literal roadblock, it was clear Zariah wasn't getting out of this conversation anytime soon.

"Ah, Crowley, I believe his name was."

Gabriel nodded at Sandalphon. Zariah wasn't sure what the look they shared was supposed to mean, but it made him nervous. They looked at him, clearly expecting more.

"He's-" Handsome. Stylish. Sexy. Kind. Mysterious. Confident. "Certainly a wily one." Zariah smiled nervously.

Gabriel clapped on the shoulder again and guffawed. "Fell! You crack me up. I'm sure he's nothing you can't handle."

Zariah just smiled. He'd certainly like to _handle_ Anthony Crowley. "Indeed. I'll keep you up to date. On the competition, as it were," he said, angling towards the elevator. He held his lunch sack in his hands awkwardly.

Gabriel moved aside but kept his hand on Zariah's shoulder. "When it comes to Fourth Circle, Fell, they're the _enemy_ , not the competition. You'd do well to remember that." He paired this rather threatening statement with a cheery smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes.

Sandalphon gave him a wide grin as he let Zariah pass, showing off rather impressive dental work. He was reminded of a predator showing its stripes to appear threatening and wondered when exactly he’d started feeling like prey in the halls of his own company.

Zariah closed his eyes on the elevator ride to the third floor. Encounters with Gabriel always unnerved him but this one had rattled him more than usual. He inhaled deeply and smelled the delicious food awaiting him. Lunch. He'd have lunch and feel better, surely.

Anathema was already seated in the interior courtyard. He sat next to her and felt himself relaxing. He rolled his shoulders back and focused on the sound of the fountain burbling away behind him.

"Did he call yet?" Anathema asked as soon as he sat down.

"What?" he said, while unwrapping his lunch. He'd mentioned the name of his favorite Thai place in passing to Newt, who'd offered to order it for him using some type of phone application. A gangly-looking teen had delivered it right to the reception desk. He'd have to thank Newt and ask him to thank the application.

"Crowley. The redhead with the shades. Did he call?" 

Zariah sputtered, blinking furiously. "I- I don't know what you mean."

Anathema looked puzzled and a little disappointed. She pushed her fork around her plate of salad without eating any. "So that a no, then."

"Again, my dear, I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

"Damn. I was really hoping he'd call." She set her fork down and leaned forward, conspiratorial. "I gave him your card," she whispered too loudly.

"You _what_?!"

"At the fair. I slipped him your business card." She smiled, triumphant, and he felt panic rising in his throat again. He had a feeling this lunch was not going to be relaxing after all.

"You should _not_ have done that, my dear." He tried to give her a stern look but there were so many thoughts crossing his mind, he couldn't be sure what she saw. Crowley had his number? But he hadn't called. Did he think Zariah was interested in him? But it didn't matter because he couldn't see him again. And he hadn't called, anyway.

"I'm not going to apologize for trying to set you up,” she said with a stubborn tilt to her chin. “You deserve it, Z."

"It's not a matter of what I deserve!" He could hear his voice getting higher and he tried to contain it, but the panic still bled through. "He's from _Fourth Circle_ ! And besides, you don't even know if he's interested in, well, people like _me_." He glanced around furtively. The inner courtyard was populated by a few younger employees playing games on their phones and paying no attention to their surroundings. The fountain burbled happily behind them, oblivious to Zariah’s distress.

Anathema rolled her eyes. " _Anthony Zariah Fell_ , he was most _definitely_ interested in you. I don't have any idea if he's interested in men generally, of course, but I don't have to be psychic to know that he was interested in _you_."

It was his turn to look skeptical. Anathema had long claimed to have psychic abilities and while her predictions were not awful, they were the type of vague phrases that could have multiple meanings and tended to only be relevant when looked at with the benefit of hindsight.

She huffed. "You should have seen the looks he was giving you. And you were giving him right back!” She pointed her fork at him. “Plus, your horoscope had very promising things to say about it. And he’s sexy! In a former-rockstar-turned-insurance-salesman kind of way. You can't let the company run your love life, Zariah!"

He gave her a kind, sad smile. "I can, my dear. I've signed so many non-compete and non-disclosure forms over the years that Silver City Financial owns more about me than I'd care to admit."

"But it's not right! You can't let them-"

"Anathema, I can. If I were to be seen in a social context with Anthony Crowley from Fourth Circle, it would be assumed that I'm, what did you say, jumping ship? Or worse, that I'm disclosing company information." Gabriel had made it abundantly clear that any dealings with Fourth Circle would be scrutinized, as would his own loyalty.

She shook her head. "So you're willing to give up a chance with a guy who’s totally into you because of the company's rules? That's just sad, Z."

"No, my dear, it's doing what's best. For me and for Crowley. Fourth Circle would be equally displeased, I'm sure." Crowley's words came back to him. _If my lot find out I've rescued a rep from Silver City, I'll be the one in trouble._ No. For his sake and for Crowley's, he'd better hope that Crowley didn't call him. And yet, of course, he so desperately did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a surprising number of revealing and/or important work-related conversations in public hallways in front of the elevator where anyone could just walk by. Not sure what that's about?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blink and you'll miss a Tenth Doctor reference. Sorry not sorry? I've been watching Doctor Who and it just seeps in.

"Crowley! Nice of you to show your pretty face," the head of accounting said with a smirk. Dagon kicked the copy machine she was standing in front of and swore profusely at it. This seemed to scare the machine into spitting out a few collated pages before giving up with a pathetic beep.

Crowley threw a mock salute in her general direction and sauntered deeper into the chaotic office floor. He paused in front of a row of doors that were cordoned off with caution tape. Orange traffic cones were scattered around haphazardly. There was a damp smell he was sure had gotten worse since the last time he’d been here.

"Where in all the various circles of Hell is my office?" he shouted. The sleepy-looking people in the nearby cubicles ignored him. One guy looked his way, then shrugged and returned to clipping his fingernails at his desk.

The clodding sound of footsteps preceded Hastur's gravelly voice. "Crowley! Nice of you to show your face."

"What happened to my office, Hastur?"

"You've been moved."

Crowley stared at the odious man, dumbfounded.

Hastur smirked. His drab gray suit didn't fit right on his tall frame, with too short sleeves and somehow a too long coat. His tie was ugly and loose, and his shirt had been buttoned up wrong.

"Construction. We're upgrading the office. It'll take three years. Meanwhile you're on the other side. You'll find it." He made a weird jerking motion with his head and took a sip of something that smelled awful. 

Crowley attempted a smile. "Thanks. Okay. Sure."

Hastur nodded at his drink. "Kombucha. You should try it. 'S fermented."

"Right. Well, okay. Later." Crowley nodded and tried not to look disgusted. 

Hastur smiled at him as he turned. It was terrifying.

He made his way down the opposite corridor, keeping his best _I don't care about any of this_ face on as he walked. The hallway lighting became dimmer as he got further away from the main cluster of offices and the smell of microwaved popcorn got stronger. 

He passed the grimy office break room on his left, where a handful of middle-aged employees sat reading magazines and eating frozen lunches. A lost-looking intern was peering at the refrigerator in bewilderment. He rifled through an assortment of greasy paper sack lunches and open yogurt containers, muttering under his breath. The microwave was covered in sticky notes reminding everyone not to reheat fish, for the love of everything holy.

Crowley shuddered, then made a face when he arrived at his new office. It was three doors down from the break room, and closest to the call floor. The din of clicking fingers typing away and murmured conversations was like an inescapable white noise machine. 

Someone in a cubicle in the middle of the maze of partitions blew their nose loudly, then answered a call with a subdued, "Fourth Circle, my name is Jeff, how may I assist you?" Jeff sounded like death warmed over. He sneezed right in the middle of the customer call, and Crowley heard the sound of several bottles of hand sanitizer being opened. The entire team would get what Jeff had; for these people, trapped in a block of cubicles together eight hours a day, using hand sanitizer against a cold virus was like wielding a squirt gun against a volcano.

Crowley pushed open the door to his new office and shut it behind him. He heard his nameplate fall to the floor as he did, but didn't care enough to fix it.

"Lovely," he said to no one. His office furniture consisted of a desk, standard issue office chair, computer monitor and ancient-looking desk phone. None of his plants had been moved, so God only knew where they'd ended up. Crowley hoped somewhere better than here: his new office had no windows. A single motivational poster hung on the wall: a photograph of a massive lightning storm with the word "POWER" on the bottom in all caps. It wasn't clear what the poster was supposed to be motivating Crowley to do or think, other than wish for the chance to be struck by lightning.

He threw his briefcase on his desk and retrieved his laptop. The very least he could do was check a few emails before feeling like he'd been here long enough to leave. He felt around the desktop for a few minutes, following cords to their end points, before realizing there was no laptop dock. Great. His monitor was useless and he could've worked anywhere on his laptop. And yet, he was here, in this fluorescent-lit dungeon. 

He blew out a breath, feeling deflated. Idly, he wondered what Zariah was doing. His office was probably plush, with a luxurious brown leather chair and a massive oak desk. He probably had an ink blotter. Crowley smiled. He imagined Zariah in his cream suit with his baby blue pocket square, comfortable and old fashioned and put together. In his mind, he saw Zariah's smile lighting up his gorgeous face, saw his pretty blue eyes and his fluffy white hair. Crowley swallowed. The intensity of the ache he felt for the man took him by surprise. Thinking about Zariah made something in Crowley's chest unfurl, exposing a part of himself he thought he'd buried long ago. 

A raised angry voice brought him back to his surroundings. He couldn't hear what the rep said but the tone was clear, and it was followed by the sound of a receiver being violently slammed. Whoever that was wouldn't be here next time Crowley showed his face in the office, but Crowley hoped the brief high they got by yelling at a customer had been worth it.

He read a handful of emails on his laptop, deleting most without opening them. He clicked on a notice about an industry conference several weeks away. Normally he dreaded going to events like that. It was a good excuse to get drunk on someone else's dime but nothing more. Awkward shop-talk and empty posturing. But would Zariah be there? Probably? Maybe? Crowley retrieved his card from his billfold. He hadn't called him. What would he say if he did? It's not like he could just ask him out. Could he? No. He was being ridiculous.

Crowley carefully put away the card. He made arrangements to call on a longtime international client and sent them to Hastur for approval. Maybe a business trip was what he needed to get the angel off his mind. A voice in the back of his head whispered that it wouldn't. He didn't want to stop thinking about him, not now, and given the thrill he felt just seeing his name in gold foil letters, maybe not ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be longer than this, because once these two start talking, they _don't stop_.


	6. Chapter 6

Zariah had settled into his seat in business class, blue eye mask in place, when he heard a familiar voice greeting the attendant. He lifted his mask and saw his red-haired counterpart swaggering down the narrow airplane aisle. Crowley’s hair was in a messy bun and he wore a more casual outfit than usual: black skinny jeans with a black v-neck t-shirt and some sort of shiny silver chain that went all the way down to his belt. Zariah blinked, trying to stop staring at his exposed biceps and forearms. He forced his eyes up to Crowley's face, only to realize that he was a) still wearing sunglasses and b) had a deep red travel pillow around his neck.

"Angel!" Crowley practically shouted. His face broke out into a grin.

Zariah set his eye mask on his forehead. 

"Hello Crowley! What a pleasant surprise."

Crowley stowed his leather carry-on bag in the overhead bin and Zariah stoically looked out the window at the tarmac instead of the strip of Crowley's pale stomach that was exposed as he lifted his arms. He leaned against the empty aisle seat casually and said, "This seat taken?"

"Not yet, although I believe you may have to bribe the attendant to keep it."

"I think we can work something out.” That mischievous smirk returned. He moved back down the aisle and spoke to the flight attendant, a woman who was very well put together, of course, but also had appeared a bit tired. Zariah tried not to stare as Crowley spoke to her, flashing a smile that undoubtedly had charmed many others besides Zariah. He busied himself with the book he'd brought, a Regency-style romance that he was determined not to be bashful about enjoying.

Zariah's heart sped up as Crowley settled in next to him. He folded his legs into the small space between his seat and the row in front of them, making little noises as he adjusted his impossibly long limbs to fit the space. Crowley was careful to leave enough space for Zariah on the armrest, which left him vaguely disappointed.

As people settled in around them, Zariah tried to relax and think about anything other than how close Crowley's body was to his. The thought that Crowley had charmed the attendant into allowing him to remain seated next to Zariah made him shiver with a thrill of excitement. Not only did he get to spend the next few hours sitting next to Crowley, who looked as gorgeous as ever, but Crowley _wanted_ to sit next to him. He even _smelled_ lovely, like a clean, pine-scented aftershave that wasn’t too harsh or chemical-smelling. Sitting so close to Crowley for the next few hours would be the best kind of torture Zariah had endured in quite a while.

The plane began its ascent. Crowley and Zariah sat quietly through takeoff, occasionally trading glances and small smiles. Zariah was about to retrieve his book from the pouch in the seat pocket in front of him when the attendant came by, stopping specifically at Crowley's seat. She held a bottle of wine and two plastic cups. Crowley gave her a conspiratorial smile, and Zariah wondered how exactly he'd managed to get both his seat changed and bottle service. Then again, he was a very handsome man, and probably held the same type of fancy corporate rewards card Zariah did.

"Drink?" Crowley turned to him and offered, as if he were pouring. Zariah nodded and smiled thanks to the attendant.

"Salutaria," he said, touching his plastic cup to Crowley's as if it were the finest goblet.

Crowley gave him a quizzical look. "Speaking Latin now, angel? You don't need to impress me, you know."

Zariah smiled. Every time Crowley called him _angel_ it sent a little jolt of warmth through him. He'd been called many things in his life, but never would've expected to be nicknamed “angel.” Nor could he have anticipated how happy it made him to hear it from those teasing lips. He set aside his eye mask, realizing much too late to do anything about it that he probably looked quite silly with it still on his forehead. 

"Will you be in Rome long?"

"Nah, just in for a quick upsell."

"Oh well in that case, I know the best place for oysters. While you're there, we simply must-" Crowley gave him a surprised look, his mouth partly open. Zariah wanted to kiss him. Oh dear - he'd just said something he shouldn't have. And he’d only had a small sip of wine! "That is ... I suppose that's not a good idea."

Crowley didn't say anything. He just raised his eyebrows and took a drink, covering his expression with his glass.

“I’ve never had an oyster,” he said, after a moment. He looked amused, not scandalized by what Zariah had suggested, thankfully. 

Crowley reached above his head to turn off the overhead light, leaving them lit only by the one on Zariah’s side. In the dimmer light, Zariah was disappointed that he couldn’t see much of Crowley’s angular face or the little twitches of his expressive smile. But then Crowley took off his sunglasses, and all those thoughts left his mind completely.

Crowley’s eyes were a beautiful golden brown. He had little wrinkles at the corner of each that moved as his expression changed. Zariah couldn’t believe he’d missed out on seeing them all the previous times they’d met. "Oh, there you are," Zariah said, then realized it was much too intimate a thing to have said out loud. 

Crowley blinked, then to Zariah's relief, he shrugged. "Yeah, lights," he said, by way of explanation. He waved his hand, dismissive. "It's a whole thing."

"Ah." Zariah swallowed, then turned away, a bit embarrassed. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected when he’d boarded. He took a large drink of his wine and felt it burn on the way down. Not exactly a quality vintage.

When Zariah finished his first cup, Crowley split the rest of the bottle with him and when that ran out, managed to get another. As the terrible wine flowed, their conversation flowed with it.

“They make nests you know, gorillas do,” Zariah said, quite sure of this fact, but not at all sure why they’d started talking about the subject.

“What?”

“Can you imagine? Those big fellas, all snug in their nests?”

“No, I can't imagine it because that's definitely not right, angel,” Crowley said. He frowned, as if personally offended by the very idea.

“They do!”

“Nope. You're definitely wrong.”

“Well, you're drunk!” Zariah realized too late that his voice was not at all quiet enough for the cramped space of an airplane cabin. And that he and Crowley were the only ones in business class who’d been drinking to this extent.

“M'not!” Crowley’s face pinched dramatically, and Zariah stuck out his tongue in response. “Salutar- salta- ssss- cheers!” Crowley smashed their plastic cups together.

He giggled.

"Cheers."

They shared a drunken moment of silence. In close quarters, with the glow of the wine, Zariah felt comfortable with Crowley. As if they'd always known each other. It was a dangerous thought for someone he wasn't supposed to know. He remembered Gabriel saying they'd kept an eye on Fourth Circle sales agents. Had they been spying on Crowley, somehow? It seemed absurd, but Zariah shuddered all the same. The animosity between the two rivals went back so long, and was so personal to those involved in the split, that Zariah honestly wouldn't put much past his superiors.

Crowley squirmed next to him, trying to get comfortable in his seat without jostling his tray. Zariah felt a surge of affection for him: the gallant man who'd rescued him at the product fair for no reason other than kindness and who'd miraculously appeared on his flight with a bottle of wine and pleasant conversation. Zariah squared his own shoulders. What could it hurt, to enjoy his time with Crowley? Gabriel couldn't know about their coinciding flights and certainly couldn't hear them talking. He'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of this opportunity.

"Crowley?"

"Mmmm"

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," Zariah said. He was curious and bold with wine but didn't want to offend.

"Hell of a way to start a question, angel."

"Just listen, you know I won't press if you tell me not to."

"Fine."

"Why do you- why don't you like Anthony?"

"Ah, that is quite a question, isn't it." Crowley squirmed in his seat again, like he couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard he tried.

"You don't have to answer, Crowley, I said that."

He sighed. "I always knew I was gonna change it. My parents-" Crowley waved his hand, sloshing his wine dangerously close to the edge of the plastic cup. "Whatever. Crowley fits. It's close enough to whatever I was, whatever I am. But Anthony?"

Zariah put his drink back on the tray table. He wanted to give Crowley his full attention. The background noise of the plane’s engines faded. With the dim light and the closeness of their bodies, he felt like he and Crowley were the only two people in the world at that moment, high above the clouds.

"There was this ... I was in a ..." Crowley paused, not quite able to get whatever it was he wanted to say out. He wrinkled his nose, thinking. It was adorable. Zariah tried not to stare too hard as he gathered his thoughts.

"There was a person, right," he said, and he looked far younger and sadder than Zariah had ever seen him. "And at the time, I chose Anthony because, I don't know, I just picked it. Thought I'd get used to it. Things went south. Between us. It happens, right?" He tried to put on a rueful smile, tried to play it cool, but without his sunglasses, Zariah could see the pain he was shrugging off. "Even after it all went wrong, I thought Anthony was me. _Could_ be me. You know? But it turns out, Anthony was just who I was when I was with him. Not me."

Crowley took a sip. Cleared his throat. Couldn't look him quite in the eye. Zariah wanted so badly to reach over and take his hand, but he didn't dare.

"I think I understand," he said. "Why don't you change it again?"

Crowley didn't answer for a long time. He was quiet for so long, Zariah wasn't sure he would answer. Then he looked at him and Zariah saw something broken in those striking golden-brown eyes. Finally, he said, very quietly, "Sometimes it's easier to get used to something bad than it is to hope for something better."

They sat in silence for a moment that seemed to ebb and flow with the background noise of the plane. They looked at each other now and then, small glances to the side, then back again. Neither spoke, but Zariah didn't feel uncomfortable. Sometime during the conversation, their arms had settled next to each other on the armrest, just barely touching.

"So," Crowley said, then trailed off. He was looking at his drink with an intensity that Zariah assumed must be due to the drink, not the revealing conversation they'd been having.

"So?"

"You don't have to answer," he said.

"That's certainly one way to start a question, I believe?" Zariah put a smile into his reply, but Crowley didn't smile, or joke back. Oh.

"What does Zariah mean?"

Oh.

Zariah blinked a few times, and studied his own drink, which he realized was distressingly close to empty. 

"You don't have to answer, angel. Forget I said it."

"No, it's okay, Crowley." And it was. Crowley had shared a part of his history, and it had clearly been difficult to do so. The weariness he typically felt when trying to explain his unusual name was absent, because somehow he knew Crowley would understand. 

"Anthony is my father's name. He gave me his name, because-" Zariah snorted. "Because of course, he did. My father is-" He paused. There were so many words he could use to describe his father and whenever he tried, they never seemed adequate. He could describe one or two aspects of the man, but it never captured the wholeness of him. "I love my father," he said, finally.

"But."

Crowley's voice was quiet, soft. It wasn't the joking, teasing Crowley that Zariah was accustomed to. This was the Crowley who had just shared his own past with him. The compassionate listener. The … friend? There wasn’t exactly a label that fit him, was there?

Zariah's mouth twitched, acknowledging all complicated history Crowley had managed to express in just one word.

"But."

Zariah paused, thinking and knowing Crowley would wait for him to continue when he was ready.

"There's so ... _much_... to him. He's all-encompassing. When I'm with him, there's very little room for anyone else. Anyone that's ... "

"Different?"

For the second time, Zariah smiled as Crowley took the words from his mouth. Typically when that happened, the people who spoke for him or over him didn't say exactly what he was going to. He met Crowley's uncovered eyes. "Different."

Crowley's mouth parted and he licked his lips. Their faces were so close. Zariah wanted to close the gap so badly, but knew if he did, it would change the moment. It would change whatever this was, whatever they had. And once he acted on the desire to kiss Anthony Crowley, he wouldn't be able to pretend his feelings for man were anything less than what they were. He looked away first.

"Zariah."

"Yes?"

"What does Zariah mean? I've never heard it before."

"Oh, right. Yes," he said, flustered. He pursed his lips. "Well, it's traditionally a feminine name, so that may be why."

Crowley shrugged. "So?"

"Right. Quite right," Zariah said, relieved. He nodded in agreement. "But my full name is Anthony Zachariah Fell." He frowned. "Zachariah means 'a remembrance of God' and I can assure you my father meant it exactly as such."

Crowley blew out a breath. "Jeez."

"Quite. He gave me his own name to ensure the continuance of himself through me. And he gave me a name that functions as a literal reminder of the presence of God, as if I could possibly forget."

Crowley reached over and gave his knee a comforting squeeze. Zariah wanted to stop time and live in that moment because it didn't last nearly long enough.

"So you shortened it? To Zariah?"

"In a way, yes." He smiled and wished Crowley would put his hand back. "Zariah is close enough, phonetically, you know." Crowley nodded. He cocked his head to the side, giving Zariah his entire attention. "It can mean ‘the radiance of dawn.’ I find hope in the imagery of it, I suppose."

Crowley didn't laugh or smirk like the few other men he'd explained his name to. "Radiance of dawn," he repeated. He looked at Zariah, considering. "Now _that_ is a name that fits you."

Zariah couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. "Really?" Crowley's lips twitched, and Zariah knew what would happen next; he was about to be teased. Little mischievous dimples appeared in Crowley's flushed cheeks and his smile gained a few teeth. Zariah felt fizzy with drink, with this smile, drunk with the feeling of sharing himself with Crowley. Teasing, joking Crowley was back, but so too was the Crowley who listened. Who somehow seemed to _know_ him.

"Not as much as _angel_ , though. Eh?"

Zariah laughed and the happiness he felt was reflected on Crowley's face as well.

The rest of the flight passed by quickly. They chatted here and there, smiling and laughing at small jokes and nothing in particular alike. Zariah never once touched his book.

As they disembarked, Zariah felt reality coming back in waves. He didn't want to leave this comfortable bubble and return to the world in which he and Crowley weren't allowed to chat and laugh together. Where he wasn't allowed to think about way Crowley's eyes twinkled when he thought he was being clever, or the sharp cut of his jaw and the strong lines of muscles that ran down his neck. Zariah wanted to trace them with his tongue. But the noise and crowds in the airport assaulted his senses and brought him back to the present. 

Crowley must have felt something similar because he paused near the baggage carousel.

"Hey angel," he said. "We're just going to have to keep doing this, right?"

"Doing what?"

"Trying to take each other's clients and compete and the like. Even though neither of us really wants to."

"I suppose," he said, slowly, "but that's the job."

Crowley put a hand on his hip and cocked it to the side. "What if we just ... didn't."

Zariah opened his mouth but couldn't think what to say. People flowed past him carting luggage and chattering on cell phones but he ignored them. Any minute now his head would start pounding from the wine they'd shared on the plane.

Crowley continued. "Look, you're good. I saw you at that fair, technical issues aside. So what if we just agreed to leave each other's territory alone? Then we wouldn't have to try and undermine each other." He waved his other hand in the air vaguely.

"But that would be-" He furrowed his brow. What, exactly? Unethical? Disloyal, to be sure. But when he remembered the gleam in Gabriel's eyes as he called Crowley _the enemy_ , he didn't feel as uncomfortable as he ought to. And it wasn't as if his company was desperate for the business... He was sure Crowley would take care of any potential clients. He'd probably be better able to service his own clients if he wasn't so distracted, in fact.

"It'd be like a ... What do you call it? A covenant not to compete." Crowley spread his hands out wide, the picture of innocence. "An arrangement, of a sort."

He swallowed. Either Crowley made a very tempting argument or he was just a very tempting person.

Crowley put his sunglasses back on and said, "Just think about it?" 

He nodded but didn't trust himself to say anything. Crowley turned and walked away, hip swinging wildly in that seductive manner he had. Zariah definitely stared at his backside, but convinced himself the heat rushing to his face and other areas was due to the wine, not Crowley’s lovely arse in those tight jeans. With his back turned, Crowley lifted his hand in a wave.

A few days later, Zariah received a text message. He was eating lunch in a little outdoor cafe, basking in the summer sun. He'd just dipped his bread into a delicious oil, and he licked his fingers clean before wiping his hands on a cloth. The caller's credentials were unknown; his heart started pounding. It could be anyone, of course ... He received calls from unknown numbers all the time. It was probably someone inquiring about a policy, or perhaps trying to sell _him_ something. It didn't mean anything. But he knew exactly who he wanted it to be.

The message said:  
  
Unknown  
  
Ur silly flip phone doesn't get pics but if it did u would be looking at my plate of oysters. Use ur imagination. -C  
  



	7. Chapter 7

While in Rome, Zariah had texted with Crowley nearly every day. They'd shared updates on their similar, but separate, exploits in the city. He told Crowley about every meal that surpassed his very high standards and Crowley sent him vivid (and often quite funny) descriptions of fashion and art that struck his fancy. For the first time ever, Zariah wished he had a more modern cellphone instead of the old flip version he usually insisted suited his needs just fine. He could only imagine what sorts of interesting photos Crowley would send him.

Every time his phone dinged with a new notification, his heart beat a little faster. Zariah told himself it was the setting. He loved the sensual atmosphere of Italy; everyday he found a new way to indulge his appetite or appreciate the beauty of the architecture or the people. It was only natural that while he walked down the bustling streets and drank wine in the evenings that his heart might race a little at the thought of a man as handsome as Crowley. He hadn't actually seen Crowley since they'd parted at the airport but his attractive rival was never far from his mind.

And yet, it was the atmosphere, wasn’t it? The high from the plane and the feeling of being away from home. Here, in the sun-soaked streets of Rome, he could pretend that Crowley was something more than an acquaintance. He could imagine … well, he could imagine all sorts of things while he relaxed on the balcony of his private villa. While he dozed in decadent bedsheets that weren’t his. While he bathed in a clawfoot tub, surrounded by bubbles and the slippery touch of his own skin. Surely once he returned home to resume his usual client calls and days at the office, the fluttery feeling in his stomach would subside.

It didn’t. 

Instead, when he returned to his desk in his too-bright office at Silver City, he felt empty. The wide corridors and long hallways made him feel lost. Out of place. 

He’d customized his office as much as he dared, but it was still too modern. Too sterile. His desk was sleek metal, all sharp lines and shiny surfaces. He had a window that looked out on the city below, but the glass had been frosted so all he could see was a diffuse white light. He’d purchased a bookshelf from corporate procurement, but all they had in stock was one made of a glossed particle board. He added his reference books and files to it, filling it dangerously close to the point of tipping over. On top was a statue and several forgotten mugs that had once been filled with tea or cocoa.

Zariah sat at his desk and stared blankly at the beautiful landscape on his screensaver. Crowley hadn’t texted in almost two weeks. Perhaps he’d forgotten about their … what had he called it? Arrangement? It was an absurd idea from the start. Zariah couldn’t believe he’d considered agreeing to it. He couldn’t possibly share details about potential sales with the company his boss had called _the enemy_. After all, this was the company that had taken Morningstar! He couldn’t.

But. 

If he did, it would be an excuse to speak with Crowley. 

Banishing the thought from his mind, Zariah opened his leather-bound date book. It was stuffed to the brim with receipts from traveling, notes he’d written himself then promptly forgotten about, and ticket stubs. Michael had given him quite the disdainful look when he’d told her he didn’t use an electronic calendar program. But perhaps he was being uncharitable and Michael’s face just looked like that. It was hard to tell.

He opened his briefcase and retrieved his trusty Custom 823 fountain pen. Setting his readers on his nose, Zariah flipped through his date book to find today’s date. He crossed off the day’s tasks and felt comforted by the ritual of it. Flipping ahead to Friday, he noted that he was scheduled to attend a play with a longtime broker acquaintance. The man had brought Zariah many of his clients over the years, and Zariah had always felt his commission was more reasonable than others in the trade.

Perfect. He’d attend the play, socialize and talk trade with Robert. And he absolutely would not think about the glimpse of red hair in the V of the neck of Crowley’s black t-shirt as he'd boarded the plane. Or the way their knees had bumped every so often as they chatted. Or the soft, hopeful look on his face when he’d said “ _Sometimes it's easier to get used to something bad than it is to hope for something better_." 

Zariah’s computer chimed, letting him know he had a new message. 

He busied himself with electronic mail for the better part of an hour or so. He’d been chasing several leads in a new market segment that looked promising and he sent preliminary numbers to underwriting. Sandalphon may complain about the expense, but he arranged to attend a conference the following month. It wouldn’t do for him to miss out on the latest product trends, and they usually had free food. Zariah was about to log off and go to lunch when an email from Robert popped up. He couldn’t make the play, but Zariah was welcome to the tickets.

“Oh, bother,” he said aloud to no one.

Perhaps … No, that wasn’t a good idea. He couldn’t possibly invite Crowley to the theatre. But if he was serious about this “arrangement” then perhaps a public place was the perfect opportunity to discuss it. He couldn’t very well email Crowley the details of his upcoming pitches. But if they happened to meet at the same theatre performance … 

Zariah sighed. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

A company-wide email from Gabriel popped up that was marked _High Importance_. The subject line had both exclamation marks and all caps. When he opened it, the message was a poorly-spelled missive regarding the misuse of company time while on bathroom breaks. The phrase “time theft” was repeated several times.

Zariah deleted the email and opened his phone. He texted the ticket information to Crowley and hit “Send” quickly, before he could change his mind. He physically rocked back in his chair, amazed at his own boldness. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. Maybe Crowley wouldn’t respond?

Crowley texted back immediately:  
  
Unknown  
  
Ok, c u there  
  


Zariah let out a deep breath. Though he'd been the one to reach out, somehow getting a response sent an unexpected thrill through him. That was settled, then. He'd be seeing Crowley on Friday. He could only hope that Gabriel hadn’t extended his practice of “keeping an eye on” Fourth Circle field agents to their social lives. But even if it had, the odds of Gabriel attending the theatre were low. He'd mentioned going to a play once in conversation and Gabriel had rhapsodized about The Sound of Music for several minutes before proudly announcing he'd never seen any other theatre performance.

So that was settled. He added a tick next to the item on his datebook for “confirm theatre plans for Friday.” He closed his book and capped his pen. Lunch time. He’d reached the door to his office when the realization hit him: He’d be seeing Crowley again on Friday. A traitorous smile appeared on his face and stayed there the entire day until he packed up to leave.

\--

"You know there was a fellow," Zariah said at intermission.

"Mmm?"

"He used a real skull! For Yorick, you know." Zariah wiggled in his seat, happy to be sharing this tidbit with someone who wanted to hear it. Or was very good at pretending, at least. "I saw it. The young man was quite handsome but I can't say I could tell the difference between the real one and the prop."

Crowley made a ‘hmm’ sound low in his throat, and Zariah shivered. The sounds Crowley made even during normal conversation were so unique. Guttural. Masculine and so … _him_. Zariah wondered what sorts of noise he’d make if Zariah slid a hand up his thigh. Caressed him through his dress pants, right here in the audience. Zariah’s cheeks flushed with heat and he looked away.

“Sounds like a gimmick to me,” Crowley said. “But you’ve got to hand it to them, creative types. They always come up with something.”

“They do, don’t they.”

Crowley smiled at him and Zariah felt his cheeks flush again. They hadn’t had time to chat before the performance, which was just as well. Zariah had been jittery all day with nerves knowing he was meeting Crowley again. And with the fact that he was ostensibly there to have a discussion that broke several covenants he’d signed with Silver City when he was hired all those ages ago. But as soon as the house lights came up, he’d found Crowley so easy to talk to he wished they could chat without the pretense.

Crowley squirmed in his seat, as he had been for most of the first and second act. He’d draped himself across the hardback chair in a manner Zariah found both sexy and perplexing in equal measure.

“Wine, angel?”

“Please,” Zariah said. Crowley started to get up. “But I’ll come with you. Could use a stretch of the legs myself.” And an excuse to see what Crowley was wearing, though he managed not to say anything of the sort.

Crowley shimmied past several people still seated in their row and waited for Zariah at the end of the aisle. He held out his arm and did a sort of bow, as if to say “after you” with only his ridiculously long limbs. 

Zariah smiled as he reached him, then tried to be subtle while giving his outfit a once-over. Crowley wore very slim-fitting dress pants with a matching suit jacket. His shoes were freshly shined. Zariah had expected to see him in black, since every time he’d seen Crowley it’d been in some variation of black on black. But no, tonight his suit was a deep blue. He wore an emerald green dress shirt underneath, with no tie. It was a striking look, and Zariah couldn’t help but give him a second glance before joining him in the aisle. He may have been imagining it, but he thought he saw the ghost of a smirk on Crowley’s lips.

Zariah found an empty spot at a cocktail table and watched the well-dressed crowd flow around him. Crowley’s bright hair was pulled back into a messy bun, but its striking color still stood out among a sea of brunettes, blonds, and greys. As he waited on their wine, Crowley twisted his body around, searching for Zariah. When their eyes met, he gave Zariah a little private smile that sent warmth flooding through his body. It was monstrously unfair how attractive Crowley was. And how unavailable.

A woman in a red cocktail dress approached Zariah’s table.

“Is this space open?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Oh-”

“‘m afraid not, love,” Crowley said, setting Zariah’s drink down in front of him.

“Oh I’m so sorry,” she said, seeming genuine. “I’ll leave you to your friend here.”

“We’re not friends,” Zariah said, before he had a chance to think. “We don’t know each other. Um…” He panicked, looking over at Crowley. Instead of surprise or hurt, however, he was smiling broadly at Zariah’s blunder.

“Right,” the woman said, “well, I’ll just get back to the play.” She backed away, giving them a bemused look.

Crowley was still grinning. “So angel, how’s business?” he said, not missing a beat. “Reconsidered the arrangement, have we?”

Zariah cleared his throat. Right, business. The arrangement. “Not so loud, Crowley, please,” he whispered. Loudly.

Crowley rolled his eyes, but lowered his voice. “All right, all right.” He gave Zariah a knowing look and brought his mouth disconcertingly close to Zariah’s ear. “No one has to know.”

Zariah gulped. He could feel Crowley’s breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Orthodontists,” he said. Crowley looked confused. “Orthodontists. Cosmetic dentistry. It’s all the rage these days.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. He’d put his tinted glasses back on when the house lights had risen, so Zariah couldn’t see his expression but by now he knew Crowley well enough that he could imagine what was coming. 

Before Crowley could tease him, he said, “I’m just saying, Crowley, that cosmetic dental practices are booming right now and one might imagine such practices could use a touch of insurance against financial risk.” He raised his eyebrows and put on a prim look that he hoped was subtle enough.

Crowley laughed. The sound came from his gut and it filled Zariah with a feeling he tried very hard to ignore.

The lights blinked, signalling the end of intermission.

“Cheers to you and your orthodontists, angel,” Crowley said, downing the rest of his glass.

\--

They stood outside the valet line, where the attendant had handed Crowley the keys to his car with such trepidation that Zariah wondered what had gotten into the lad. He stood awkwardly next to Crowley, not wanting to leave and knowing it was time.

“Can I … drop you somewhere?”

Zariah opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Crowley was looking at him with such earnestness that it took his breath away. He saw hope and longing and more than a little bit of sadness on Crowley’s face, lit strangely in the dark by passing headlights and the neon of the theatre marquee. He knew if he let Crowley take him home that he would let Crowley in for a nightcap, he’d say. He’d let Crowley into his home and into his bed and he would let Crowley do absolutely anything to him. And oh how he wanted Crowley, in that moment, under the awning of a theatre surrounded by the nightlife in the city and the darkness that might let him pretend.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” Crowley said. His sunglasses reflected a passing car’s headlights, briefly shining and blocking Zariah’s view of his face. It passed, and he was grateful he couldn’t see through the shades to Crowley’s eyes.

“Better not,” he said, softly. 

Crowley remained silent for a moment. And then it was gone. His face closed up; the confident grin that masked his secrets returned.

He nodded once, then rounded the car and climbed in the open driver’s side. The Bentley’s engine roared to life and he didn’t turn around as he said, “See you around, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- I wrote the beginning of this chapter long before the pandemic hit Italy so terribly hard. Please stay safe out there folks, and my heart goes out to those directly affected by and helping people on the front lines of this.
> 
> 2- Oh how I wish I could afford a $300 fountain pen…the Pilot Custom 823 is one of the ones Neil Gaiman uses. It has a 14k gold nib, for Heaven's sake! I do love my $15 Metropolitan, though.
> 
> 3- David Tennant was the one who used the real skull when he played Hamlet, because of course he was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, umm this chapter is where the M rating comes in.

"Look at those Silver City assholes, ‘ey think they're so high and mighty," Hastur said, with a sneer. Come to think of it, that’s always how he sounded. Like his voice got stuck in his nose and came out with all the malice in it amplified. At least this was just a sneer. When you really had to worry was when his voice dipped low, into the dirty gravel of his throat.

"Can't we just drink and not worry about the company for one night?" Crowley said, eager to schmooze if it meant he could put some distance between him and his bosses. And his co-workers. He'd schmooze all night as long as he didn't have to talk to anyone from Fourth Circle. After spending the last three hours in an overstuffed conference room discussing mortality tables and risk management, he was prepared to make conversation with Satan himself if it meant getting away from Dagon’s flowcharts and Hastur’s terrible body odor.

He eyed the bar at one end of the ballroom, then glanced at the buffet at the other side. No sign of fluffy white hair or a cream-colored jacket. Not that he was looking for Zariah. Who was he kidding? He totally was.

“Fine. Go get pissed like the boozers you pathetic lot are,” Beelz said to the group. They added, “Have a shag with a client, see if I care. But remember who your enemy is.”

"The open bar?" Crowley replied, then got a smack from Beelz on the back of the head. They had to reach up on their toes to reach him, but they got the point across.

"Ow! Okay, I know, I know." He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Good. Never forget the way they treated us after Morningstar." Beelz's voice took on a low, intimidating buzz, like a chainsaw just getting started. It was the voice they used in the boardroom when numbers were bad and heads were about to roll. He’d seen an intern piss himself in the middle of the office when Beelz used that voice on him. "Silver City is _dead_ to us."

Crowley bobbed his head. "Right, right, yeah. 'S not the sort of thing you forget." 

Hastur and Ligur nodded along with him and Crowley felt like a complete tool, but Beelz seemed satisfied for the moment.

"Get out of my sight, then," they said. Crowley started towards the bar, but Beelz grabbed his arm. "Crowley. See me next Friday. I have a special project for you." They smirked in a way that reminded Crowley of a villain in a terrible spy movie. In that scenario, he was the low-level henchman sent to do the dirty work and set up for a cheap, expendable death. 

He gulped.

"Me?"

"You." They released his arm. "It's an honor. Ligur over there would give his right arm for this, so don't fuck it up."

"Right. Friday."

They turned and walked away briskly, apparently done with the conversation. Crowley let out a breath and rubbed his arm. 

Well that was a thing. 

He needed a drink.

\---

Zariah refilled his plate with shrimp cocktail and gave the server standing guard behind the platter a sunny smile. The young woman brightened, straightening her shoulders and standing taller. He eyed the tiny slices of cheesecake on a tray behind her. They looked scrumptious but the dessert course hadn't been served yet. The server caught his eye, looked around furtively, then snuck a piece from the tray. She handed it to him with a wink and held a finger up to her lips. He made a zipper gesture across his mouth and popped the cheesecake into his mouth. 

It _was_ scrumptious.

He’d spent the first day of the conference cooped up in small rooms with no windows, trying to ignore the smell of Gabriel’s aggressive cologne. He’d learned quite a bit about life tables and adverse selection, but it had been hard to concentrate while Michael and Uriel went on behind his back making passive-aggressive play-by-play comments. 

After freshening up in his room and heading downstairs to check out the spread, Zariah felt refreshed and ready to mingle. He scanned the room, looking for tight pants and a shock of red hair.

Ah, there he was. Zariah headed in the opposite direction.

Crowley was talking to a group of stuffy-looking people dressed in too much tweed. He wore the same suit he’d had on when they’d met at Jasmine Real Estate: black jacket and tight black pants with a black undershirt. His tie was the same charcoal gray, but this time it had a pattern that Zariah couldn’t quite make out. As usual, Crowley wore glasses that were lightly tinted: somewhere between sunglasses and regular prescription lenses. They made him look mysterious but also slightly uncool, like a guy wearing aviators after the trend had long ended. 

Zariah tried to look away quickly, not wanting to get caught staring, but he was too late. Crowley turned his way and one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Zariah smiled back, trying not to let too much joy show on his face.

He fell into conversation with a handful of sharply-dressed attendees. Small talk was something of a specialty of his, but he was having trouble giving this group his full attention.

“So anyway, Zariah, can you believe that as I was shaking this guy’s hand, his $20,000 watch comes undone and drops off his wrist? Straight into my martini!” 

Zariah nodded along to the consultant’s story, smiling and chuckling at what he assumed were the right moments. He shifted his gaze back to the group Crowley was in, and noticed that he’d stepped back a little. 

Crowley caught his eye, then slowly brought his hand up to his face. He pointed to his teeth and then jerked his head to the side. Zariah looked over and - _oh good lord._ The man talking animatedly next to Crowley had the worst buck teeth he’d ever seen. They protruded out of his mouth while he talked and Zariah could tell by their faces that he was spitting on the people listening. The strange man’s complexion was unnaturally ruddy and he had enormously bushy sideburns which matched the neck nair poking out of his unbuttoned dress shirt.

Zariah let out a bark of laughter, then tried to play it off as choking on his drink.

“Are you alright?” the man next to him asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, patting his chest. He steadfastly avoided looking at Crowley. “I was simply thinking, who in their right mind pays $20,000 for a watch?”

The man gave him an odd look. That must’ve been far beside the point. Zariah smiled brightly and the man continued talking.

He risked a glance Crowley’s way and immediately regretted it. Crowley was clearly trying to hide an enormous grin, but the corners of his mouth were creeping up anyway. Little dimples had formed on his cheeks. Crowley rocked back and forth on his heels and looked very pleased with himself. Zariah’s breath punched out of him - he felt such a surge of, what? It wasn’t desire, not exactly, though Crowley looked dashing as always. Even in the unflattering lighting of the hotel ballroom, those cheekbones stood out magnificently.

But no, what Zariah felt wasn’t just desire. It was affection. He’d spent the entire day with people he’d known for years, and yet without even speaking to him, Crowley had made Zariah feel happier and more welcomed than any of his closest colleagues had. 

Zariah took a deep breath and turned back to the consultant, who was still talking even though Zariah hadn’t heard a word.

\---

Zariah paused for a moment as he entered the lift. The group shuffled around to make way for him and he smoothed the front of his waistcoat. He clasped his hands in front of his body and cleared his throat.

“Four, please,” he said.

A woman who’d had a bit too much free drink circled her finger around the buttons and squinted for a few moments before pressing the four and five buttons simultaneously. She nodded, satisfied that they’d all get somewhere eventually, then took another swig of her to-go cocktail.

Zariah cleared his throat again.

“Uhh, four. Also,” Crowley said.

The doors opened at two and after an awkward shuffle, a disappointed couple realized they’d have to wait for the car traveling downwards. Zariah stared at his feet. His brown loafers had a bit of scuff he’d need to address at his earliest opportunity. He looked two sets of feet over. Crowley’s black boots were impeccably shiny. They were pointed, Italian, and terribly stylish. Also had a bit of a heel to them, Zariah noted.

The inebriated woman and the other inhabitants of the car exited at level three.

Zariah stared straight ahead, heart pounding. The doors closed. At the chime, he looked over to Crowley. They stared at each other until the doors opened at the fourth floor but neither moved to break eye contact. Crowley looked amused, like he’d received a gift he hadn’t expected but couldn’t open yet. Zariah gave him a small smile and held the door.

Crowley turned left at the junction. Zariah followed. He stopped in front of door number 404. Zariah paused at 402.

“This is me, then,” Crowley said. “And you?” He gestured vaguely to the next door over.

Zariah nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Crowley nodded and sucked his teeth. He didn’t retrieve his key. Neither did Zariah.

"Good night, angel."

"Good night, Crowley."

Neither moved.

Zariah leaned forward and took a deep breath. His eyes darted from Crowley's still covered eyes to his lips. 

In a burst of courage inspired by all the mixed drinks he’d been handed over the course of the evening, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Crowley's cheek.

All of a sudden, he found himself backed against the space in between their hotel doors, with Crowley's hands fisted in his jacket and his body pressed against Zariah's. Their faces were centimeters apart. Zariah gasped, breathing in the heady scent of Crowley’s cologne. It was subtle but alluring. His scent was dark somehow, smoky. Zariah’s eyes flicked down to Crowley’s lips, so close to his own. His heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder Crowley couldn’t feel it through the layers of fabric between them.

Zariah’s eyes drifted closed. This was really happening. Crowley’s nose brushed against his, and he felt as though he would burst with anticipation. With want. Crowley was going to kiss him and there was nothing more he wanted in that moment. He parted his lips slightly, waiting for Crowley to cross the scant gap between their lips.

The lift chimed. Zariah froze and he felt Crowley stiffen against him a moment later. Neither breathed as they waited, listening. The doors opened and voices drifted out into the hallway.

"And I said, this guy is the _worst_ magician I've ever seen!"

A snigger.

"I _know_ , man, did you hear him ask the guy for a handkerchief?"

Several people chuckled.

The footsteps grew louder as the group approached, talking and laughing loudly. Zariah didn’t recognize any of the voices, but his mind was having trouble keeping up. His body was screaming at him, every nerve ending crying out for more contact with Crowley, who still held him against the wall.

Crowley smoothly stepped to the side, grabbing his room key from his pocket and pressing it to the lock. Zariah felt cold at the loss of contact. He stared after Crowley, not bothering to hide the longing in his eyes.

The group of inebriated guests passed by, taking no notice of the men standing in front of their doors. But the moment was gone. Zariah felt a rush of emotion wash over him; he felt shame and desire and embarrassment in equal measure. How could he have been so stupid? To think that Crowley was going to kiss him in the middle of a hallway! At an event attended by both Fourth Circle employees and Silver City? He must’ve been mistaken to think that Crowley wanted this as much as he did. Zariah drew in a shaky breath.

Crowley pushed open his door. He tore off his sunglasses and tossed them inside. Then he turned back, and just for a moment, Zariah caught a glimpse of his face. He saw in Crowley's eyes a mirror of his own longing. 

Zariah parted his lips in surprise, but it was too late.

Crowley shut the door.

Zariah entered his own room and left it dark. He went through the motions of undressing mindlessly, lost in the moment they'd almost had.

He climbed into the unfamiliar queen bed and stared at the ceiling. Light came in under the door, giving the room an odd pattern of light and hard shadows. Zariah breathed in and out, trying to focus on something, anything other than the scent of Crowley’s cologne and the feeling of his body pressed so close. He couldn’t.

Zariah’s eyes drifted closed. He strained his ears, listening for any sound from next door. Every noise outside his door could be Crowley, changing his mind. Could be Crowley, coming back for him. He imagined Crowley knocking on his door. He’d grin and cock his head to the side in that rakish way he had. He’d say something like “Mind if I come in, angel?”

Crowley wouldn’t waste time, Zariah thought. Once Zariah let him in the door, he’d be slammed against it and kissed, hard. He’d press Zariah against the inside of the door like he had in the hall. But this time, he’d shove their mouths together, too. Zariah’s heart raced. He’d moan into the rough kiss, encouraging Crowley to keep going. Crowley would slip his tongue inside, tasting him.

Zariah’s body felt hot, so he kicked off the scratchy hotel sheets. He ran his hands down the front of his body, still pretending for the moment that he wasn’t going to carry this fantasy any further. But then his thumb caught on his own nipple, sending sparks of desire downwards. He took a deep breath. Then he rubbed it again.

Right. _This_ was happening, if only in his mind. Crowley still had him pressed up against the door and was grinding their hips together. The friction of it would be maddening. Zariah touched himself gently and let out a hiss at the sensation. It wasn’t enough.

Crowley would need more, too. He’d need to get Zariah to bed, so he’d pull them both roughly backwards while keeping their bodies pressed together. Crowley would bite and suck at Zariah’s neck, hard enough to give him bruises he’d have to hide tomorrow. They’d tumble into bed and tear each other’s clothes off.

Zariah teased the tip with his fingers, while imagining Crowley’s warm body pressed against him. He imagined those impossibly long limbs wrapped around him, trapping him to the thin hotel mattress. He stroked himself in an even rhythm now, knowing he wouldn’t last long. In his mind, Crowley was still kissing him thoroughly as he came.

His ears rang in the silence of his dark, temporary room. Zariah breathed in through his nose, then slowly out. He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the weird shadows from under the door. He didn’t want to hear the thundering silence of the room next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life tables and mortality tables are the same thing, just referred to from opposing perspectives. It's a graph that shows the probability that a person of any given age will die - or, looked at the other way, the probability that a given person will live to the next year on the graph. It's dry, actuarial stuff, but interesting when you consider it a mirror reflecting either death or life. You get to choose the way you see it.


	9. Chapter 9

[several weeks earlier]

Crowley threw his jacket over one of the high bar stools and shoved his rolling travel suitcase in the direction of his bedroom. He scowled at his spotless, soulless kitchen.

"You all better not have misbehaved while I was gone," he said, turning around to face the main room over the large marble island that separated the open kitchen from the rest of the living space.

The modern patterned rug under his white leather sectional didn't reply. Nor did his large flatscreen, the surround sound system, the amplifier, guitar, or any of the gaming systems. Crowley scrunched up his nose. Welcome home.

It was early afternoon, but he fired up his espresso machine anyway. He was fighting off a jet lag-induced migraine and a crush that wouldn’t quit. Of all the problems he had right now, at least one of them might be solved by caffeine.

While the machine whirred in the background, Crowley turned his attention to the peace lily on the counter.

"I'm not going to do it," he growled. "I'm not."

The wide leaves of the lily were drooping slightly. The plant faced him with an air of resignation. Crowley sipped his too-hot coffee. He winced at the burn on his lips but drank it anyway.

He was not going to text Zariah.

"I shouldn't have done it in Rome and I'm certainly not going to do it now I’m back,” he said to the beleaguered plant. It was sending up a few stalks that hadn’t opened into blooms yet. They were pointing downward in pathetic parabolas of misery.

“You weren’t there to stop me, were you?”

The lily didn’t answer.

“That’s right! So now I’m back, and you don’t get to give me that face. I’m not going to do it! It was fun while it lasted but it can’t happen. Him and me. You know that. We’ve been over this.”

He sighed and filled up the plastic watering can he kept under the sink. After he made the rounds to his fern, the corn plant in the corner, the mother spider plant and her little plantlets scattered about the place and the delicate african violets in his office window, he returned to the lily on the counter. Having been watered, it perked up and if he didn’t know better, he’d have said it regarded him with pity.

Crowley picked up his phone, just to check the time. He wasn’t going to text Zariah. He wasn’t going to. Crowley hit the screen on his phone harder than necessary to cancel the message.

He scrolled up through their correspondence over the past few days and blew out a breath. His last message had been incredibly stupid, but Zariah hadn't seemed to care. 

**To:** Angel  
  
Heading home now  
  
saying ‘Ciao’ to room service on the companys dime  
  
Ciao - that’s some Italian for you  
  
(it means "food") ;)  
  


Zariah had responded with a long series of emoji that he hadn't gotten until he'd disembarked from the plane, ending in a blowing kiss. He didn’t seem to realize he could send more than one in any given message, so Crowley had to scroll through pages on pages of faces and images of food, hearts, and drinks to get to any actual text.

**From:** Angel  
  
😂  


**From:** Angel  
  
🍕  


**From:** Angel  
  
😋  


**From:** Angel  
  
🥐  


**From:** Angel  
  
🥖  


**From:** Angel  
  
🤗  


**From:** Angel  
  
😘  


Crowley slammed the phone down on the counter and closed his eyes. This couldn’t happen. He was fine. His life was fine. He had money and a stylish condo and plants that gave him attitude. When he needed a particular type of adult companionship, there were apps for that. He didn’t need a cardigan-wearing, fluffy-haired, soft-eyed … no, he didn’t need anyone. He’d learned his lesson the last time he needed someone.

He opened his eyes. The lily’s stalks were starting to perk up. But since it was fall, it was too soon to tell if they would open into late-season second blooms or fall down and decay.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, sticking his tongue out at the plant. “But I _want_ him.”

His resolve lasted for two weeks. Fifteen days of not texting Zariah. Three hundred and sixty hours of staring at his traitorous bastard of a phone that showed him all kinds of messages from clients and advertisers and his abusive bosses at all hours of the night, but nothing from the one person he wanted. He spent hours composing messages and not hitting send.

He showed up at the office and that seemed to earn the admiration of Dagon. He watched more Golden Girls on Amazon Prime than he’d ever admit to any living soul, though he also realized his video purchasing habits were known to whoever Jeff Bezos decided they were known to whether he liked it or not. He practiced the guitar, and pissed off the strange-smelling man that lived downstairs and always called him names that were probably offensive but his accent was so incomprensible that Crowley couldn’t really tell one way or another. All the feelings swirling in his gut when he got the urge to send a message to Zariah got channeled right back out again.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket while he was gesturing towards the projector screen. He’d just finished his slideshow on the benefits of using machine learning to quickly calculate loss reserves using predictive modeling when he felt the telltale buzz in the back of his (today very tight, very black) skinny jeans.

Crowley winced, but as he surveyed the motley crew seated around the boardroom table, it was clear that no one cared. Beelz had their Birkenstock-clad feet up on the seat of an empty leather chair, looking bored. Hastur was wearing a tank top and picking at his fingernails. The only thing Crowley hated more about giving presentations was giving presentations on casual Mondays. Fourth Circle couldn’t even get casual days right.

“Right, very good Crowley,” Beelz said, waving a hand in the air vaguely. “Send the slide deck to the group with notes.”

Crowley nodded and sat back down. As Dagon went over some upcoming changes to the regulatory landscape, he stole a glance at his phone. The contact in his phone was simply labeled ‘angel.’ Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat. The message held details about an upcoming performance of Hamlet, this Friday.

There was no comment, just the ticket info and a question mark.

He texted back immediately.

**To:** Angel  
  
Ok, c u there  
  


Shit. Shit, shit, shit. After two weeks of not texting Zariah, his resolve had crumbled immediately. The theatre? Sure, he’d go. Hamlet, yes. Why not. Shit. His face felt hot and his palms started sweating. Dagon droned on about comment periods and expected guidance based on circuit court rulings, but his mind was filled with the heady realization that Zariah had asked him to go to the theatre.

He should be berating himself for responding in mere seconds like the desperate fool he was. But all he could think was: _Wahooooooooo!_

\---

Crowley flopped down on his bed, fully dressed. He replayed the evening in his mind, and knew while he was doing it that he was torturing himself.

_We’re not friends. We don’t know each other._

The flustered look on Zariah’s face as he’d said that gave him away. It was the look you wore when you’d been caught staring at someone you shouldn’t. The look you got when you were so caught up in a person that you forgot to put one foot in front of the other and ended up on the floor. Zariah’s mouth said one thing, and his face said the exact opposite. He’d once thought Zariah would make a terrible poker player, and their night at the theatre confirmed Crowley’s suspicion.

He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor. It hadn’t been a date. Not exactly, anyway. It had been the arrangement he’d proposed, half-drunk on wine and Zariah’s face so close to his on the plane. Fine. That was … fine. He could work with that. Crowley groaned and picked up his shoes from the floor. He undressed and climbed under his luxurious silk sheets.

Zariah had been wearing a sport coat in his usual ivory color, but this one had dark blue detailing on the lapels. His dark blue tie and pants matched the lining and provided a marked contrast to the overall brightness of the jacket and his almost-white hair. It was a more casual look than he’d seen Zariah wearing to his sales calls, but still somehow quite elegant and … posh. It suited him perfectly.

_“Can I … drop you somewhere?”_

Shit.

Crowley knew he’d be kicking himself for that line decades from now. What an idiot. Zariah had agreed to meet him to discuss a mutually beneficial business arrangement and he’d offered him a ride home like a teenager taking his date out for a spin before curfew. Crowley kicked off the sheets and paced around his bedroom in his underwear. He ran his hands through his hair and ranted to the pothos vines growing around the windowsill.

“Anywhere you want to go? Anywhere you want to go?” he growled. “What does that even mean? You went to the theatre, had a drink. Now I’m inviting myself to your place? Argh!”

The pothos didn’t reply, and he had half a mind to water it even though they both knew it wasn’t due for watering until next week.

“That look, though,” he protested. When Zariah had looked at him under the lights of the theatre’s awning, he’d been sure there was something there. Something more than a … mutually beneficial business arrangement.

Crowley threw himself back down on the bed, deflated. It was clear by now that he wouldn’t be able to just forget the angel with the fluffy hair and the radiant smile. But the way Zariah had looked at him that night made him think that maybe, just maybe, Zariah didn’t want to forget him either.

[now]

Crowley shut the door to room 404 and stepped inside.

He kept the lights off. He didn’t move for a second, just stood and breathed in the events of the evening. The conference had been shite from the start, no surprise there. Beelz wanted him for some special project that was probably a trap, and Zariah had flirted with him across the room while they separately mingled with the most boring people on the planet.

Then … _shit_. Shit, shit, shit.

What had he been thinking? He’d almost lost control and took things much further with Zariah than he should have. It had all been too much! The tension as they’d ridden to the fourth floor, then the way he’d said “Good night, Crowley” in that honey-soft voice. And … had Zariah actually kissed him on the cheek? Crowley couldn’t remember if that’d happened or if he’d imagined it.

His head was too full of the angel’s scent, somehow old-fashioned without being stuffy. He smelled like a gentleman, like someone transported from centuries ago and plopped into this one with the wardrobe to match. He was perfect. Shit. And then Crowley had to go and fuck everything up by backing him against the wall! Thank someone he didn’t believe in anymore that those people had appeared and broken the moment.

Crowley took a step forward and tugged off his boots. He hopped around on one foot, then the other, swearing up a storm while trying to get them off. Once he had tossed his shoes aside, he took a step towards the bed and immediately winced in pain.

Shit.

He’d need to buy another pair of glasses.

Crowley crawled in the hotel bed and tried to pretend he’d be able to sleep. He focused on the silence around him and tried to let it slow his heartbeat. He took a deep breath in, then let it out. He closed his eyes, shutting out the weird shadows under the door that reminded him of the real world outside. The hotel, the conference, the job, the life, the mortgage on his condo. The loneliness. The longing for a life with someone else.

He turned over on his side and drew up the scratchy sheets. Sighed.

That look Zariah had given him as he’d closed the door appeared behind his eyelids. Then the memory of his soft body pressed against the wall … _Fuck_. He was so fucked.

Crowley tossed over to his other side. His joints would be screaming at him soon enough, if it weren’t the restless thoughts keeping him awake.

What would have happened?

He’d had Zariah pinned against the ugly wallpapered nook between their doors. Zariah had looked pointedly at his lips, then closed his eyes. _Fuck_. He’d been waiting to be kissed. For Crowley to kiss him. Fuck, he’d wanted to kiss him so badly, too. Crowley would’ve kissed him softly, as gently as possible. He’d press their lips together, just barely. The softest brush of skin against skin.

He’d have pulled back, just to make sure Zariah was okay with it. Then he’d have said something smooth, or tried to, anyway. Something like “Mind if I come in, angel?”

It probably would have come out like, “Ngk?”

Crowley stopped, opened his eyes.

Even if Zariah had let him in, Crowley would have hesitated. If he was caught snogging a rep from Silver City, his career at Fourth Circle was over. He’d worked there for decades and even though he hated it, they paid him well and let him do as he pleased. From what he knew about Silver City and the way the Morningstar business had gone down, they were no better. Silver City and Fourth Circle were the main two players in town, and if he lost his job at one, there was no going over to the other.

Crowley listened to the silence from next door.

He tried not to think about Zariah, sound asleep just on the other side of some drywall and terrible wall art. Fuck. If Zariah had let him in, Crowley would have hesitated. He would lose his job if he was caught and Zariah might, too. But if Zariah had let him in, after hesitating, Crowley would’ve followed him to bed. He would’ve kissed Zariah gently, running his hands through that soft white hair. He’d have followed Zariah’s lead and given him anything he wanted. If Zariah let him, Crowley would follow him to the stars and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Peace lilies are supposed to be very low-maintenance plants but in my experience they are very dramatic.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Rating: This is rated M, but the scene at the end of this chapter is a fairly hard M (pun, sorry). Things get spicy after the POV switch - if you’re not comfortable with specifics beyond kissing, stop at “Or maybe a picnic”. You won’t miss much but I’ll put a brief synopsis in the after note.
> 
> 2- CW: there’s a bit of body image/weight discussion in this chapter. It's not a lot.
> 
> 3- Words: this setting is a chain hotel that one might see in any major city. Given that this fic is set in a generic world that blends elements of Good Omens with America, please forgive my all-over-the-place word usage. Closet is used here in the American way meaning a separate (but tiny) room that in this case holds cleaning supplies.
> 
> 4- Apologies to Shakespeare: There’s a bit of bastardized Romeo & Juliet in here. So sorry. Really, very sorry.
> 
> 5- Business stuff:  
> ROI is return on investment;  
> "Mini plans” are insurance plans that cover only the absolute minimum required by law and are generally considered junk products designed to make money while providing very little- not all companies offer them because they are really, honestly, just awful predatory products;  
> Would a salesperson sell a product without making sure it’s something the company can even provide? Yes, yes they absolutely would.
> 
> 6- Sorry for so many notes, but this is it, y’all! This chapter is long because it was so fun to write. I hope it’s fun to read as well.

The next day was a blur. Zariah sat in terrible chairs in terrible rooms and listened to terribly boring seminars. He’d brought his briefcase and notepad with the leather folio cover. His colleagues at Silver City and several others gave him skeptical looks as they tapped on their sleek laptops and electronic pads. Zariah put on his readers and paid them no mind.

At the conclusion of the day’s events, he realized he’d filled almost ten pages with notes but couldn’t recall a single worthwhile piece of information. His neat handwriting stared back at him, mocking him with bullets and underlines, items to go back and research later. All he could think about was red hair and a crooked grin.

Dinner was a formal affair, as the conference was ending the following day, so Zariah changed into his grey suit. Strangely, he felt more comfortable in it than the shirt sleeves he’d worn during the panel events. His jacket was a light grey that matched his pants, and he added a lighter colored shirt underneath with a deep blue tie that complimented his eyes.

Zariah looked himself over in the full-length mirror of his room. The lighting was awful, and he frowned at all the lines that showed around his eyes. He smoothed his front, taking a deep breath in and for the hundredth time that day wondered if he was being foolish. He was a stodgy, middle-aged man with a soft waist and even softer … well, everything.

And yet here he was, preening in front of the mirror like a schoolboy hoping his crush would notice.

But _would_ he notice?

Zariah straightened his tie and tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. Old-fashioned, perhaps. But he was who he was, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. Zariah pulled the door to his room shut. He glanced at room 404 briefly, then walked quickly to the stairs.

Zariah was mildly disappointed with the dinner. He chose the fish, and regretted it. His assigned table was full of amiable people who chatted easily, but he couldn’t focus on them long enough to contribute much to the conversation. The dessert course barely made up for the questionable quality of the fish.

After the meal, attendees were herded into the hotel’s atrium-style lobby for a networking cocktail hour. Zariah was looking forward to escaping to his room for an early night in when his given name was called, loudly.

“Anthony! We were just talking about the new rules for mini plans. Very exciting stuff! What do you think?” Gabriel handed Zariah a beer that smelled more like a cleaning product than a beverage.

“Oh, has the company’s stance changed? I thought we decided those plans didn't provide enough coverage for our members-”

“Anthony, get with the times! Mini plans are all the rage. Compliant to the letter of the law,” Gabriel said with a wide smile. Sandalphon sidled up beside him.

“Yes, but-”

“Really, Anthony, you must see how attractive these offerings are from an ROI perspective.” Gabriel’s eyebrows made it clear that his protests would get him nowhere.

“Yes, of course,” Zariah said. “I'll have a chat with Anathema in Operations, then-”

“Oh don't bother,” Gabriel said, cutting him off with a dismissive wave.

“I'm sorry?”

“She'll find out when you start selling, Anthony! That's the important part! So get out there and sell, tiger!” Gabriel punched him on the arm with the hand that wasn’t holding his own beer. It felt harder than Zariah thought necessary.

“But don't we want to know if we can provide the services I'm selling?”

“Oh those operational people, they always figure it out. Besides, when it comes to the mission, we climb every mountain, am I right?”

Zariah smiled nervously but didn’t reply.

“Ford every stream,” Sandalphon added.

“Yes! Sandalphon! He gets it.”

“The mission, right,” Zariah said, nodding. “And remind me again-”

“Earnings, Anthony!”

“Right. Call me an old silly, I thought providing quality service to our clients was the mission.” Zariah took a sip of his drink and immediately regretted it. Gabriel’s cheery smile fell.

  
“Shareholders are clients too, Anthony,” he said. Then he moved closer and put an arm around Zariah’s shoulders. “Oh, that reminds me, I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

“Yes?” Zariah tried very hard not to move away as Gabriel came closer. They were about the same height, but Gabriel’s blocky frame seemed to take up all the space where they stood in between two tables.

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and gave Zariah a significant look. “Something is up over at Fourth Circle.”

“Up? Whatever could be-” Zariah stammered. “I- that is-”

“Things are afoot. I need you to keep an eye on them. But don't let them know you're doing it.”

Zariah swallowed. “Of course.”

“You have a phone right? Just get close to that flashy two-bit hack of a salesman they send everywhere and hit record. No problem! I’m sure you’ll pick something up and the ginger won't suspect you of anything. I mean, look at you!”

Zariah had no idea what to say to that. Gabriel clapped him on the back harder than he needed to, causing Zariah’s drink to spill over.

“Gabriel,” he said.

“Yes?”

“It’s Zariah. My name. Not Anthony. I’ve gone by Zariah for quite some time.”

“What?” His boss’s face contorted in what looked like genuine confusion. “Is that a girl’s name?” He shook his head, then said, “I don’t think so.”

“But-”

“Come on now, Anthony. We have an image to maintain!” Gabriel’s smile was back, with too many teeth that were just a little too white. “Can’t have our salesman going around calling themselves funny names.” Next to Gabriel, Sandalphon nodded seriously, as if his own name wasn’t absolutely ridiculous.

“Oh, that reminds me. I’ve been meaning to tell you, we have a new fitness program starting Monday - it’s optional, but in your case, I mean, really.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, come on, we’re the same age, Fell! You can do it- I believe in you!” Gabriel made a fist and pumped it in the air next to Zariah’s head.

“Do what, exactly?” Zariah knew exactly what he meant.

“Lose the gut! Now, where is everybody? Come on, we’re doing shots!”

Gabriel found Michael and Uriel at the bar. They coerced Zariah into doing a shot of something that tasted like turpentine. It burned his throat on the way down and left a ball of churning stress in its wake. Zariah looked at the aggressive smiling faces of his colleagues and wondered how he got there. He’d known these people for years, but looking at them in the light of the hotel atrium surrounded by chattering empty talk, they looked like strangers.

He was thinking of ways to extricate himself from their group when Michael called out, “Another round!”

Zariah opened his mouth to decline when his phone buzzed. Grateful for the excuse, he pointed to it and turned around. He flipped open the phone and didn’t bother looking at the screen as he stepped away from the raucous group.

“Hello, this is Mr. Fell speaking. Who’s this?”

“Heya, angel.”

“I- Crowley!” Zariah said, bringing his voice to a loud whisper. He cupped his hand over the phone and looked around for a flash of red and black, but Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

“You looked like you needed a rescue.”

“I- well, yes, thank you,” he said, standing awkwardly between high tables laden with half-filled cocktails. “Where are you?”

“Look up.”

Zariah lifted his eyes to the upper part of the atrium, where the balcony of the second floor was exposed. There, leaning casually with both elbows on the railing looking down at the space below, was Anthony J. Crowley. He held his phone to his ear and cocked his head to the side. Zariah couldn’t quite make out his expression since he was wearing a different pair of glasses than he had last night, but he could guess that Crowley’s eyes were crinkled in amusement. His mouth would be fighting a grin.

“Crowley,” he said in a grateful whisper.

“Heya angel.”

He stared up at Crowley, phone to his ear and a soppy smile on his face. Neither spoke. Zariah breathed into his old flip phone and forgot about everything except the man on the balcony above.

“Speak again, bright angel,” Zariah said softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the cocktail hour. “Over my head a winged messenger of heaven, my wondering eyes fall back to gaze upon him.”

Was he imagining the smile widening on Crowley’s face?

“If I’m Juliet in this scenario, I’m not going to beseech you to renounce your name, angel,” Crowley replied, sounding amused.

“Ah, quite. You’ll recall I’ve done so already.”

“That you have. Perhaps it’s my turn,” Crowley said.

Zariah remembered a moment that seemed so long ago. Shared cups of wine and a conversation that ebbed and flowed as they soared above the clouds. _Sometimes it's easier to get used to something bad than it is to hope for something better._

“Your group is coming for you.”

“What?” Zariah turned and sure enough, Sandalphon was making his way towards him with two shot glasses in hand. “Oh bother.”

“Make up an excuse and meet me by the pool.”

“What? Crowley?”

But he’d hung up. Zariah closed his phone and took a breath. He faced Sandalphon and said, “Ah, excuse me, but I need to go.”

Sandalphon glared at him.

“Michael got this for you. Shots don’t come with the open bar, you know,” he said with a sneer.

“Ah, yes, I know. Please tell her I’m grateful, but I seem to have … misplaced something important. In my room. That was the clerk telling me they’d found it.”

“Misplaced something?” Sandalphon looked skeptical.

“Yes. You know me, silly old Fell. Forget my own head next!” Zariah chuckled nervously, then edged away from the glowering man. “You’ll give them my apologies, won’t you? There’s a dear chap, thank you.” He fled.

Crowley was standing by the door to the hotel pool, leaning casually against the textured wallpaper and looking completely at ease. Inside, children splashed loudly and ran around under a sign that said “No Running.”

“Crowley! What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t just leave you there, angel. Looked like that bloke in the nice suit was gonna tackle you.”

Zariah deflated. He leaned against the opposite wall from Crowley and tried to slow his heart, which had been racing since he’d spied the lanky man on the balcony. Crowley’s long legs were stuck out, making his body into a triangle with the wall. How he managed to contort himself into such strange positions with those limbs was incomprehensible to Zariah, whose legs were thick and didn’t bend nearly so much. His feet pointed to Crowley’s in the narrow space of the hallway. Crowley’s shiny boots were almost kissing his plain dress shoes. Zariah swallowed.

“That’s just Gabriel. It’s … how he is.”

Crowley sucked his teeth. “Ah, the infamous Gabriel.”

“He’s not that bad,” Zariah said. Crowley gave him a look. “Well, yes, okay, he’s terrible. But he’s my boss.”

“Too bad. And I thought my lot were hellish.”

Zariah smiled, a wry look on his face. They stood in silence, listening to the hapless man in the pool area attempting to wrangle his children. The kids splashed on happily. Crowley’s face looked fond, and maybe a little sad.

Voices drifted in from the hallway that formed a T with the enclave where they stood. A gravelly man’s voice said something but Zariah couldn’t make out what it was. A grunt followed.

“Shit!” Crowley shot straight up and looked around frantically.

“What is it?”

“My boss!” Crowley whispered urgently. He moved past Zariah and tried the handle on a door Zariah hadn’t even noticed was behind him. The doorknob turned and Crowley pushed the door in.

“Aha!” he shouted, rather louder than Zariah thought prudent. Then he yanked Zariah into a dark closet and shut the door. It was completely black; Zariah couldn’t see a thing and all of a sudden he was accosted by the smell of bleach and Crowley. He could feel the tension in Crowley’s body as he waited for the voices to pass them by.

A few moments passed, then a few more. Zariah was barely breathing, suddenly so aware of how close he was to the object of his fantasies the night before.

Crowley blew out a breath, seemingly satisfied that his bosses were gone.

“Shit. It’s dark innit?”

“Indeed.”

Zariah heard Crowley fumbling about in the closet, then blinked against the sudden brightness as he found the pull switch on a bare light bulb. He and Crowley had retreated into a closet with a metal rack on one side stuffed with cleaning supplies.

Crowley’s face was so close that Zariah could feel his breath. He swallowed, then met Crowleys’ eyes. Crowley had removed his glasses and looked about as stunned as Zariah felt.

He giggled.

\---

Crowley blinked furiously at the sudden illumination from the light bulb. Shadows and stars swam in front of his eyes and he regretted taking off his glasses. When the afterimages faded and his vision returned, he got an up close look at Zariah and changed his mind. He was glad he’d taken them off.

Zariah looked as stunned as he felt. Their faces were almost as close as they had been last night, when Crowley had come so close to kissing him. Crowley opened his mouth, with no idea what might come out of it.

Zariah giggled.

Little crinkles appeared around his eyes and mouth, and the sound he made was one of unabashed amusement. Crowley felt his own face crack into a smile, then he let out a barking laugh of his own.

Their laughter faded into smiles, which faded into looks filled with fondness and longing.

“Last night-” Crowley sighed. He started over. “I wanted to-”

He shifted closer to Zariah, and brought a hand up, hesitant. Zariah gave him a soft smile, and he brought his hand to Zariah’s cheek. He leaned into it.

"There are all these industry people here I should be chatting up,” Crowley said. “Free food to eat. Free booze to drink."

Crowley’s thumb brushed lightly over Zariah’s cheekbones and he felt Zariah shiver under his touch.

"But all I wanted was to be close to you."

"Crowley-"

“You look gorgeous tonight, angel,” Crowley said, and meant it. “I was up on the balcony for a while, you know. I got a good view.”

Zariah’s cheeks flushed and he looked away.

“Angel.”

When their eyes met again, Crowley knew he was done for. Up close, Zariah’s eyes looked grey. Or were they blue? They were deep and shining and hopeful. This time he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing Zariah, so he didn’t.

Their lips met in a chaste kiss. It was the slightest of kisses, barely a touch of lips, but the explosion of feeling bubbling up in his chest took Crowley’s breath away.

“Crowley,” Zariah said, softly, pleading.

Crowley kissed him again and this time, Zariah tilted his head back, letting Crowley kiss him deeper. He held the back of Zariah’s head with one hand and cupped his cheek with the other. His chest was aching and it felt so good he never wanted to do anything else but kiss this soft, silly man, career and reputation be damned.

Zariah held out an arm, trying to hold onto something for balance. He knocked a spray bottle filled with bleach to the floor with a clatter that sounded louder in the cavernous silence of the dark closet.

They both froze.

Crowley pulled back and looked at Zariah's flushed face. His perfect pink lips were swollen from kissing and he had a wild sort of look in his eyes. They both looked sideways at the door, waiting for the sound of someone knocking. The last thing Crowley needed was for someone to interrupt. It felt like he’d been waiting centuries for this.

They both held their breath and waited. Three seconds, then five. Ten seconds went by in silence.

When nothing happened, he felt Zariah relax in his arms. Crowley sighed and buried his face in Zariah’s neck. He wrapped his arms around Zariah’s waist, slipping his arms under his suit jacket. He rested his head on Zariah’s shoulder and breathed in the soft scent of Zariah’s cologne. He smelled spicy and old-fashioned, like how he imagined gentlemen in a fancy gentlemen's club would smell before they lit their cigars. He smelled _good_. They held each other for a few silent minutes, mashed together in a closet while a mop handle dug into Crowley’s ribs.

"This isn't how I woulda planned this, you know," Crowley said at last.

"What would you have planned?" Zariah was gently running his fingers through Crowley's hair.

He sighed under the soft strokes of Zariah’s fingers up and down his scalp. It made him feel calm and brave. He wanted Zariah’s hands in his hair every day for the rest of his life.

"If I could, you know, without anybody watching. No disclosure forms, no HR.” He took a deep breath in, pressed a little kiss to the skin just under Zariah’s collar. He felt a shiver run through Zariah’s body and he smiled. “I’d take you somewhere. The fanciest restaurant in the city," he said into Zariah's neck. "The freaking Ritz if I could swing it."

Crowley pulled back and risked looking at Zariah. He had no idea what he might see on his beautiful rival’s face, but he wanted him to know. Crowley may have screwed up their careers by pulling him into this closet, but Zariah deserved to know how he felt. What he wanted.

Zariah’s eyes were wide, hopeful, and a bit surprised. He was beautiful and open: Crowley’s own personal ray of sunshine in the dim light of the closet.

"Or maybe a picnic.”

"Oh my dear," Zariah said, with a smile could have lit the sky, "that would be lovely."

Crowley couldn't stand to look at that smile for another second, so he kissed him again. The possibilities he saw when Zariah looked at him like that were too much to bear. He saw a house cluttered with books, a garden, and that smile greeting him when he walked in the door. He pictured it, and kissed Zariah slowly, gently. He kissed Zariah the way he wanted to kiss him for the rest of their lives.

Zariah apparently had other ideas. He opened his mouth and licked Crowley’s lips with his tongue. Crowley made a desperate noise he absolutely couldn’t control and pressed their bodies together, pinning Zariah to the metal shelf behind him.

When they pulled back for air, Zariah said, "I must admit that a closet was not exactly what I imagined for our first time, either."

He pursed his lips and if Crowley didn't know him so well by now, would've called the look on his face shy instead of what it was: coy.

"You imagined-"

Zariah maneuvered his hand in between their bodies and Crowley gasped when he stroked him over his trousers.

"Oh heavens, yes," Zariah said. Crowley kissed him again, harder this time, and couldn’t help but thrust his hips with the movement of Zariah’s hand. With monumental effort, Crowley pulled back. He wanted. He wanted so much, but most of all, he wanted to make sure Zariah knew how much he wanted _him_.

“Can I-” he started, then moved his hands to the button of Zariah’s trousers.

“Yes,” Zariah replied, breathless. “Anything Crowley, please.”

That was all the permission Crowley needed. He kneeled in front Zariah and took him into his mouth. He closed his eyes and listened to the pleased sounds Zariah made. Zariah’s hand found its way into his hair and Crowley thought he might die right there on the spot, in a grungy hotel closet where the rest of his coworkers were partying the night away outside to terrible generic music and free cocktails.

“Crowley, I’m-”

He grabbed Zariah’s hand and kept going. The fingers in his hair tightened enough to make him moan, but not hard enough to be painful. His knees were aching on the hard concrete floor and he was barely balanced while he held Zariah’s hand instead of bracing himself on the shelf. But when Zariah came with a little gasp, Crowley wouldn’t have changed a damned thing about the last ten minutes of his life.

He looked up at the blissed expression on Zariah's face. His cheeks were pink and he looked down at Crowley with glazed eyes that were almost green from this angle. Crowley felt a surge of pride and affection. He’d been the one to put that sated look on his face.

He tucked Zariah back into his briefs and went to stand up but his legs simply didn't. Crowley let out an involuntary groan and put a hand on his knee to use the leverage and force his limbs to cooperate. There was a loud pop as he straightened.

Zariah came back down to earth and looked at him with concern.

“My dear are you all right?”

Crowley groaned. "Argh, just forget that part, angel, please, for the sake of my dignity," he said.

“But-”

“It's nothing. Knees, hips, eyes. It's a whole thing,” Crowley said. “Anyway. Just cut the last ten seconds out. Skip straight from-” he wiggled his eyebrows. “From _that_ right to this, okay?" He wound his arms around Zariah's neck and nuzzled his jaw.

"Of course.”

Zariah put a hand on Crowley’s hip and he loved that it felt possessive. He kissed down Zariah’s jawline and decided he could live forever in this closet if he didn’t have to stop doing this. Somewhere on the floor, his phone buzzed. Crowley was only dimly aware that it had fallen out and didn't give a damn.

“My dear, can I-”

Crowley smiled into Zariah’s neck. “Yeah, yeah angel, you can.”

Zariah undid his trousers and reached inside. He couldn’t help bucking his hips again as Zariah stroked him back to hardness.

“Angel, I’m not going to last-”

“That’s alright. So perfectly alright, my dear,” Zariah said, pulling him into a deep, filthy kiss. He came with Zariah’s tongue in his mouth and a moan he only later realized must’ve sounded incredibly desperate. Zariah pulled a handkerchief out of somewhere and cleaned his hand. Crowley watched, dazed. When the roaring in his ears stopped he kissed Zariah again, softly pressing their lips together.

Crowley’s phone buzzed again, rattling against the hard floor.

“Shit,” he said. Crowley crouched down awkwardly to grab it and unlocked the screen. He had three missed calls from Hastur and an angry text from Dagon.

“Duty calls?” Zariah asked gently.

“Yeah, duty calls.”

They looked at each other, heat in both their eyes. Zariah looked away first.

Crowley smoothed the front of his shirt and put his phone back in his pocket. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to pat it down the best he could. Zariah did the same.

“Angel-”

“Crowley-”

They smiled, but Crowley could tell their moment in the closet was up.

“I’ll go first, yeah. If anyone’s out front, I’ll say something.”

Zariah opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but he shut it. His eyebrows were knit together and his mouth pinched into a pout.

“Angel,” Crowley said, then ran a thumb over Zariah’s bottom lip. Zariah’s eyes closed for a moment, then he nodded.

“What will you say? If someone’s out front.”

“I don’t know, I’ll make something up. Ducks.”

“Ducks?”

“Got something against ducks?”

Zariah laughed, and Crowley’s chest fizzed again. It felt like a champagne bottle had been opened between his ribs and the feelings were spilling out all over the place, expanding.

“See you around, angel,” he said quietly, then stepped out of the closet and back into the real world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Synopsis-  
> Zariah and Crowley finally have their moment together, smooshed in a supply closet. Crowley confesses that he wants to be able to take Zariah out on a romantic date, to the Ritz if he could, or a picnic. (Aww) Zariah says that would be lovely. (They love each other so much, y'all.) Afterwards, reality comes crashing back.  
> Next up: The Arrangement gets an added layer now that Zariah and Crowley have finally taken that first step towards each other. But what special project does Beelz have planned for Crowley?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Zariah gets (even more) hot and bothered. It's just really fun winding him up. We've done Hamlet, now it's time for art galleries and buses. There's very little plot in this chapter, as it happens. Sorry not sorry? It'll be here soon.
> 
> That said, this chapter also features a racy scene at the end that pushes right up against the boundaries of an M rating. As with before, you won’t miss plot development at all if you skip it. Stop at “Naw, just wanted to see you“.

They were due to meet in Medieval Art.

It had only been three days since their rendezvous at the conference, but Zariah was humming with anticipation at the idea of seeing Crowley again. Flashes of their brief time together kept coming back to him, unbidden. Crowley’s long, lean body pressing Zariah into the metal shelf. His hips thrusting into Zariah’s hand. Crowley’s arms wrapped around his neck, while he trailed butterfly kisses down Zariah’s neck. His _mouth_.

Zariah blinked. Shook his head to clear it, and headed in to purchase his ticket.

He’d taken a taxi, then public transport home from the conference on Sunday. Zariah’s phone had remained silent as the conference wrapped up, and every time he flipped open the screen with no new messages, his stomach did a little flip. Arriving home, he felt wrung out, like a dish towel that had every drop squeezed from it. He was eager to wash the day’s travels off his weary body. He set his luggage near his overstuffed closet, then started a bath. As the water warmed, his little bathroom filled with moisture and a cozy feeling. He added a lavender bath ball and breathed in the comforting scent.

Zariah looked out from where he sat perched on his claw-foot tub. The rooms he rented were small, and filled with books, discarded Playbills, mugs half full of cocoa, and other miscellany. Old maps lined the walls, along with decorative pieces he’d picked up on his travels. Few pictures. The ones he had framed were mostly taken long ago. They showed a younger Zariah, a more adventurous Zariah, smiling and laughing with exotic locales in the background. In the photos, he was slimmer, younger, and yet somehow just as lonely. There had been many reasons, over the years, to be alone. He’d shed layers of guilt like an onion, then found underneath that were simply more layers of closely related feelings. Self-loathing. Fear. Habit. Eventually he’d stopped digging and accepted that his life was to be lived alone.

He’d removed his clothes and climbed in the bath when he heard the buzz of a text. Muttering under his breath, Zariah climbed out carefully, dripping all over his fuzzy blue bath mat, and retrieved his phone from the ledge over the sink.

**From:** Unknown  
  
Museum, Tuesday 1pm, Medieval  
  
arrangement stuff and … yeah  
  
-C  


Zariah replied, then set the phone carefully back on the ledge. His heart flipped around in his throat as he eased himself back in his bath. Tuesday. He’d see Crowley again on Tuesday.

As he rubbed the scented bubbles over his skin, he remembered what it had felt like to have someone else touching him. It had been so long. He sunk into the fizzy water and drifted into a gauzy half-dreaming, which was only interrupted by the occasional drip of the faucet.

\---

Zariah wandered around the exhibits, glancing about randomly but not really absorbing any new information. He kept an eye out among crowds of schoolchildren and tourists for that shock of red hair and tried to pretend his heart didn’t beat much faster anytime he thought he caught a glimpse of it.

He’d meandered into the armory. Massive tapestries lined the walls bearing the crests of long-gone rulers. Statues of horses and their riders lined the main hall. He watched as a group of children craned their heads up at the massive stone animal, pointing and shouting with glee. He ended up in front of an impressive mannequin wearing a shiny breastplate complete with chain mail under its helmet and a feathery cape. Zariah assumed the cape was mostly for show. That couldn’t be functional, could it? Then again, he was no expert. 

Behind him, a deep voice rumbled out from behind a similarly armored mannequin. This one was wearing a deep black getup that looked slightly more menacing than its shiny counterpart.

“Who is it you seek, o foolish wanderer?” the voice said, feigning a deep baritone.

Zariah tried not to let it, but he felt a smile breaking through on his face.

“Is that you, Crowley?”

The rakish redhead stepped out from behind the knight in black. He wore a goofy grin and his usual tinted glasses. Like the knight, he wore all black: a v-necked shirt that showed just a little bit of chest hair, a fitted black jacket, and black jeans. The silver chain he’d worn once was making its second appearance around his neck. It was just a shade too delicate to be intimidating or cool, which fit Crowley’s personality perfectly. Zariah pursed his lips, trying to control the pleased reaction on his face and knowing he’d probably failed. 

“Come on,” Crowley said. 

He turned and led Zariah through the exhibits, passing by school groups and old ladies listening to explanations on headsets. They squeezed through crowds in the Asia wing. Crowley grabbed Zariah’s hand as they passed the impressionists.

“This way,” he said, steering them to the lift at the very back of the ground floor. He pushed the button for floor six, and they stood silently. Zariah remembered the last time they’d stood in a car like this, cautiously smiling at each other. He flushed, trying not to think of all the things they could do in the span of six floors. Crowley was still holding his hand when the doors opened.

“Where are you-”

“Come on, I know a place where we can talk.” Crowley weaved around the exhibits on the upper floor as the crowds thinned. 

Zariah followed, focusing on the feeling of holding Crowley’s warm hand in his and admiring the short plait he’d managed to put in his hair. It started low on his head and only extended about an inch past the nape of his neck. Zariah imagined Crowley reaching behind his head to put it in this morning before pulling on his jacket. Would he stick his tongue out in concentration as he did? Zariah could picture it: Crowley facing the mirror, his arms behind his head, triceps muscles showing under tight sleeves. The hem of his shirt might have ridden up, showing that smooth flat stomach he’d glimpsed just barely twice before: on the flight to Rome and during their interlude in the closet. 

Zariah flushed, trying not to trip as Crowley led them across a sky bridge and through the adjacent building to a bench at the very far corner of the gallery. 

As they sat, Crowley released his hand. In front of the bench was a screen that stretched from the floor almost all the way to the high ceiling. This corner of the museum was darkened so the video on the screen would be visible. Zariah looked up at the large wall and found himself facing a large peaceful image of a field. He couldn’t see any particular crop, just weeds and flowers taking up a grassy expanse of land. The grass was just below his eyeline. Above it, the land stretched for what seemed like miles, broken here and there by far-off buildings that might have been farmhouses or barns. The sky was a deep blue. Clouds drifted by lazily in the wind.

Zariah watched the footage for several minutes, feeling calmed by it. Crowley shifted closer on the bench next to him. Zariah peeked to the side and stole a glance at Crowley’s face. He’d taken off his glasses, and was looking at the picture with a thoughtful expression.

Zariah inched his hand over so that his pinky was snug against Crowley’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a small smile appear on Crowley’s face. On the video projection, children ran across the screen, laughing. One of them threw a ball off the edge of the screen and the others ran to chase it. Crowley’s pinky moved over and covered his.

He watched Crowley take a deep breath in and release it slowly. Then Crowley was kissing him and he couldn’t focus on anything else. Their lips met cautiously at first, then more urgently. Zariah opened his mouth and Crowley’s tongue slipped inside. Crowley pulled back, and Zariah chased him, taking his own taste. Crowley made a surprised little moan that sent shivers of want down Zariah’s spine.

They kissed and kissed, until Zariah could feel himself needing more. He put his hand on Crowley’s thigh, feeling his muscles under those impossibly tight jeans. 

Zariah opened his eyes, and instantly remembered his surroundings.

“Crowley-”

He pulled back. 

“Mmm, Crowley,” he said, but Crowley just kept kissing him, pressing light kisses down his jaw then sucking lightly on his neck.

“Crowley, there are security cameras!”

Crowley nipped at his earlobe, then ever so lightly kissed the spot just behind his ear. 

“Want to give them a show, angel?”

Zairah hummed as Crowley’s breath puffed into his ear, then said, “No! Crowley!”

Crowley laughed, but pulled back. Zariah was sure his face and neck were pink, giving away how flustered Crowley could make him just from a few kisses. He cleared his throat.

“Did you have something to-”

“Uhh, yeah- umm,” Crowley said, squirming about on the bench. “I wrote it down. Here, walls have eyes. Or, ears, I guess,” Crowley said, and passed him a folded piece of scrap paper. On it were a list of names. Zariah recognized several from his own little book of potential sales contacts. He nodded and put it in his pocket.

They were silent for a few moments, watching the images on the screen together. The speed of the video increased for a bit, accelerating the oncoming sunset. As Zariah watched, the sky changed from bright blue to a deep orange, then many different shades of purple mixed with bright patches of light. Next to him, Crowley breathed deeply.

“Why here?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you often bring dates to the recesses of the art museum?” Zariah asked, with a smile. Crowley turned bright red at the word “date” and sputtered, spitting out syllables that never quite cohered into words.

“I’m teasing, Crowley.”

“It’s not-” he started, then looked away. “I like this exhibit. Wanted to show you. Makes me, you know, think about … things.”

“What things?” Zariah asked, curious. He’d been teasing Crowley, but as usual, had ended up surprised at how much more there was to him under the surface.

Crowley pointed to the screen. “This view - the screen, it’s nice, right?” Zariah nodded. “On the other side, there’s another bench. The screen is double-sided, so on that side you get the same images from the other perspective.”

Zariah blinked. He’d been so wrapped up in the man next to him that he hadn’t much considered the meaning of the images on the screen.

“If you sit here long enough, it loops, goes back round to the beginning. But it’s mostly this - grass, kids, nice view. A cow. It goes across this view, then round the other side,” Crowley explained. “It’s just … life, you know? From two sides, but just a day.”

Zariah nodded. Crowley was silent, but he could sense there was more.

“This side, you’d never know it unless you looked at the sign,” he said, pointing to a tiny plaque on the wall, “it’s Mexico. The other side’s the States. They switch ‘em, though, so if you sit on one side it could be either on any given day. It’s life, from both sides of this huge, fraught line.”

“Oh,” Zariah said. It was all he could think to say.

“Yeah,” Crowley replied. “It’s - you know, there’s good and bad on both sides. But when you look at it, it’s life. On both sides, just … life. You can view it from one side or the other and it looks just like people trying to live their lives.”

As they talked, the video looped back to the beginning. Zariah watched the sun rise over the field. Wildflowers opened their faces to greet the day as light washed over them. He watched Crowley’s face become illuminated as the screen brightened. His hard edges seemed softer as he looked at the day unfolding on the screen. Zariah noticed little wrinkles around his eyes, and the faintest dusting of grey at his temples. His strong jaw was relaxed, and Zariah realized how rarely he’d seen Crowley at ease like this.

“Life can be so unexpectedly beautiful, angel, no matter which side you’re looking from,” he said. 

Zariah had to look away as he nodded in agreement. He couldn’t speak; his heart was too full.

\---

The next text came Thursday morning as Zariah was drinking his second cup of tea. He’d brought pastries to the common break room and was chatting with Anathema when his phone buzzed.

He excused himself to read it, then tapped out a reply. After a second thought, he added a smiley face emotion. Then a bus. He thought, then added another smiley face, this one with blushing cheeks.

“Who’s that?”

“What? Oh nothing!” Zariah jumped backwards, knocking over a plastic chair. “No one, I mean. A client, that’s all. I have a lunch meeting.”

Anathema’s eyebrows had risen steadily and were reaching takeoff. She said, “Okay, Z, jeez. No need to get all jumpy.”

“Jumpy? Me? Of course not. I’m fine. Just tip top, in fact. How about these muffins?”

Zariah shoved a muffin in her hands, though he knew she was going through a no-sugar phase and these likely didn’t qualify. He’d endure an explanation gladly if it would make her change the subject.

  
  


He stared at an article claiming artifacts found in the Atlantic Ocean proved the existence of a long-lost underwater civilization but didn’t absorb anything except the headline: Has Atlantis Been Discovered? Zariah had picked a window seat in the back third of the Number 9 bus and was glad to have brought the paper, even if he couldn’t concentrate on what it said. He adjusted his reading glasses and tried not to stare out the window in desperate anticipation.

The shock of red hair bouncing towards him was recognizable from miles away, but Zariah trained his eyes on his paper. As Crowley oozed down the aisle towards him, Zariah ventured a glance out of the corner of his eye, then couldn’t help a second look as he took in Crowley’s business attire. He was wearing a black dress shirt with a bright red tie that he’d loosened enough that it exposed his throat. Crowley carried his jacket over his shoulder, casually hooked into one finger. Though he only got a glimpse, Zariah could tell he looked stunning as ever. But what really caught his eye was that he’d pulled half his hair into a bun at the base of his head.

Crowley sat in the vacant seat behind him and cleared his throat.

“Listen, something’s up.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. He leaned forward in his seat, speaking directly into Zariah’s ear such that the rest of the passengers couldn’t overhear. “I’ve been in the office this week. People around Fourth Circle ... they’re acting weird. Senior staff. Cackling all the time, acting happy. Suspicious as all get out.”

“Maybe you’re getting a promotion?”

“I don’t want a promotion,” Crowley snapped.

Zariah pursed his lips, knowing Crowley could see him in the reflection of the window.

“I’m sorry, angel. I just- I have a bad feeling about it, that’s all.”

“Hmmm,” Zariah said, nodding and giving Crowley a small smile to show his apology was accepted. “Well, you know executives, they’re a strange sort after all.”

Crowley made a noise that didn’t quite resemble speech, but was close. Zariah interpreted it as assent and realized he’d become accustomed to the way Crowley’s words sometimes just stopped somewhere between his brain and his mouth. 

“Just be careful, okay?”

Crowley’s face was earnest and pinched with worry. His dark eyebrows knit together over his glasses, which were shaped in a more feminine style today. Instead of dark rims, they were a tortoiseshell color with delicate temples and slim earpieces. The lighter color of these glasses played nicely with the deep red shades in Crowley’s hair. Zariah was lost in thought, looking at his reflection in the window, when he felt Crowley nudge his shoulder through the seats.

“Okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Crowley nodded and leaned back, apparently satisfied.

They sat in silence as the bus reached its next stop. 

Zariah kept his paper open to the same Atlantis article. He hadn’t read an additional word since he’d spied Crowley coming onboard. Looking back at Crowley’s reflection in the window, Zariah met his gaze through tinted lenses. Zariah swallowed, then turned back to face the front of the bus, breaking contact.

“Did you, umm, have anything else to-?”

He heard Crowley shuffle in his seat, then felt a puff of breath next to his ear.

“Naw, just wanted to see you.”

Zariah shivered but didn’t look back. He could feel Crowley’s breath on his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he had to remind himself to keep breathing.

“Like the glasses, angel. Nice. Sophisticated.”

“Thank you,” Zariah said, with a pleased smile.

“Heading back to the office? Mmm? After this?”

“Yes, I suppose. Why?”

Crowley made a guttural sound, which sounded more hesitant than his usual half-words did. He sounded almost … nervous?

“And you, my dear?”

Crowley breathed out evenly, then said, “Yeah, yeah angel. Going to the office. You’ve got a nice office, yeah? With a lock on the door?”

Zariah considered. 

“I don’t know about nice, but yes. It’s got a window, which is nice, I suppose.” He had no idea why Crowley was asking about his office, but he was happy to indulge so long as they could sit in their little bubble of privacy, on separate bus seats on a Thursday afternoon.

“When you get back, angel. Lock the door,” Crowley said. Something about his voice had changed. It was lower, almost a growl. Zariah felt a flush rising in response to it that he struggled to tamp down.

“I- what-”

“Lock the door, angel. Then sit at your desk. You probably have one of those big fancy executive chairs. All padded leather and lumbar support, yeah?”

Zariah gulped. “Yes.” It came out more like a squeak than a yes.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, directly into his ear. Zariah took a deep breath in, suddenly grateful that he still awkwardly held a newspaper over his lap. “When you’re sat at your desk in your posh chair. Unbutton your trousers.”

“Crowley- I-” Zariah sputtered, sure his face was now completely red.

“What’ll you be thinking about, eh, angel? Take yourself in hand and start slow. What do you picture?”

“I- Crowley, I can’t-”

“You can, angel, just tell me. What’ll you be thinking about?”

Zariah took a deep breath, then looked around at the handful of other passengers on the bus. There was a lady, fast asleep several rows up. A group of students sharing videos with one another on their mobile phones. A group of tourists scanning a map. None of them paid him any mind. They saw a white-haired man reading a newspaper, while the man behind him leaned forward and rested his head on the window.

“You, Crowley, I’ll be thinking of you,” Zariah said, sure he would explode at any moment from either nerves or desire.

“Good, angel, yeah,” Crowley crooned. “Picture me there with you, eh? I’ll be doing whatever you want. On my knees, if you like. Or in your lap in that expensive chair.”

“Crowley-”

“Make it good, angel. Close your eyes and focus,” Crowley said, his voice low and laced with desire, right over Zariah’s shoulder. “It’ll feel good, angel, so good. The door is locked but there are people right outside. But don’t bother about them, angel, just make yourself feel good.”

Zariah let out a desperate noise, something between a whimper and a whine. He relaxed his grip on the newspaper, which was almost ripped where he held it tightly in his fists.

“You’ll be so hard, angel,” Crowley whispered, “but then you’ll stop. Hands off.”

Zariah made a questioning noise, but now he was the one who couldn’t quite make his mouth form full words, let alone sentences.

“Stop and look at your phone. It’s on the desk, sorry forgot to mention that.”

“My phone- Crowley-” Zariah replied, feeling utterly useless as he got caught up in the fantasy Crowley was spinning behind his ear. He felt disconnected from his body as it heated up, half aroused from Crowley’s words, and half hyper aware of the motion of the bus around them.

“Check the time, angel. It’ll be 3:05.”

“3:05,” Zariah repeated, breathless.

“3:05, angel. You can make it to 3:05. Then you can touch yourself again, do it however you like.”

“Crowley-”

Crowley hissed in his ear. "And I want you to  _ come  _ angel.”

Zariah bit his lip. “Crowley,” he whimpered.

“Come all over your hand, angel. Come for me, sitting in your office, knowing that at 3:05 in my own chair in my own locked office a few blocks away, I'll be doing the _ exact same thing _ ," Crowley said, his voice low and smoky in Zariah's ear.

The bus stopped abruptly with a loud hiss of brakes. Crowley grabbed the handle and pulled himself up as a few people around them prepared to leave. As he passed Zariah, he leaned in close and said, “See you at 3:05.” 

Zariah opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out. 

Crowley winked, then walked down the aisle to the door and off the bus, hips swinging as he went. After three stops worth of heartbeats pounding in his ears, Zariah disembarked, hands shaking. His thoughts kept returning to Crowle’s breath on his ear, the things he’d said, and the idea that he might be indulging in the same type of thoughts at this very moment. 

A bicycle whizzed by, barely missing him. Zariah came crashing back to earth as the sounds of the city around him returned. He was standing on the sidewalk with a dumbstruck look on his face. If the city were a kinder place, he suspected someone would’ve offered to give him directions. He looked around. The stop where he’d gotten off was about six blocks from the Silver City building. He could cross the street and take another bus, but Zariah knew he’d spend the entire ride thinking about the redheaded devil he’d had over his shoulder. A walk, then.

He was a block away from the Silver City building when Zariah realized he hadn’t told Crowley about Gabriel’s warning or the fact that he’d wanted Zariah to spy on him.

[3:00pm]

Anathema stretched her arms over her head and did some shoulder rolls. Her Outlook calendar was clear for the next thirty minutes and she fully intended to take advantage. She walked out of her office and passed the cubicles of the team she supervised. Anathema ducked her head as she left, hoping no one would flag her down with a question.

It was not a nice day, but she walked around the office building once anyway. Going out to the busy street always refreshed her, reminded her of life outside Silver City. It was so easy to forget anything else existed when you spent most of your life in the top floors of a building high above the world.

Returning to the Silver City offices, she took a detour to the break room and grabbed one of the remaining pastries. Who could resist the sugar rush from a bear claw at 3:00 in the afternoon? Certainly not Zariah. Plus, she wanted to needle him some more about his mystery texts. And even if he didn’t open up about it, which she suspected he wouldn’t, she had dating news to share of her own.

Anathema paused in front of the door marked “A.Z. Fell, Sales.” Zariah’s door was closed, but all she heard was silence from within. She rapped her knuckles on the door, but got no response.

She shrugged. More pastry for her, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting Notes:  
> a)The art museum armory is based on the collection at the Met in NYC, which is one of the coolest places on the planet. If and when the pandemic allows, please go if you get the chance.  
> b) The exhibit Crowley takes Zariah to is based on my recollection of a piece at the Denver Art Museum called One Way Mirror by Jaime Carrejo. (Link: https://jaime-carrejo.squarespace.com/onewaymirror)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m taking quite a few liberties with The Way Things Work here. But this isn’t the real world so I hope y’all will forgive me and go with it for the sake of getting these two hopeless idiots together (eventually).
> 
> CW: Medical conditions/chronic pain. Not much in the way of details. Just a bunch of emotions coming out all over the place. Specifics in the afternote. For non-Americans wondering why Crowley would lose health benefits if he lost his job, it's because our system is stupid. For those with chronic health conditions, losing a job means an interruption in healthcare and this factors into life decisions such as trying to run away with the person you've been pining for without clearly communicating all this to them.

Crowley closed the door to Beelz’s office gently. Turned and walked away. He didn’t pause outside the door to catch his breath. Didn’t run his sweaty palms down the front of his dress slacks. His heart was pounding in his ears, but his mind was clear. He had one objective: Get the fuck out of the office without talking to another human being.

Beelz’s was second to last in a long line of executive offices. This wing was much quieter than the rest of the floor, which seemed to ring with the constant din of phone calls at all hours, even when the customer service lines were off. But despite the status of the people behind these doors, the hallway was dingy and dim. Fourth Circle was under haphazard construction: one day the Finance Department was ripped apart, leaving unfinished sections barely cordoned off with caution tape, and the next they rewired the ceiling lights above Legal but missed a few so the lighting was uneven.

He crept past Hastur’s open door. From within, he heard a low cackle that could’ve been his direct supervisor expressing glee or passing gas. He didn’t want to know which one it was. Especially since he suspected it was glee.

Crowley made it to the stairway. He turned and took a last look at Fourth Circle. He saw a panorama of misery: glassy-eyed people talking on headsets and contorting their wrists into carpal tunnel syndrome, day after day, slowly churning along towards 5:00 p.m.

He should get his stuff from his office. Crowley took a mental inventory of his personal belongings. After the unexpected move, he’d brought in a little spider plant propagated from the main one at home. His laptop was in his shoulder bag, which was already in the Bentley. He’d have to turn the laptop in eventually. Nope, not going back for the spider plant. Sorry little guy, your sacrifice is duly noted.

Once in the stairwell, he dialed Zariah. One ring, then two. 

“Come on, come on, angel, pick up!”

Zariah’s cheery voice sounded on the third ring. It was music to Crowley’s ears. He could listen to Zariah’s voicemail message on repeat for days, just for that little hit of serotonin.

“Silver City Financial, this is Mr. Fell speaking, how may I help you?”

“Angel!” Crowley was short of breath. He took the stairs two at a time, then stepped wrong and felt a jolt run from the ball of his foot to his knee, through his hip up to his spine. It made him see stars, but he kept talking. “Angel! Listen, I need to talk to you. Don’t say anything if you can’t-”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, Silver City does offer products that are competitive yet mindful towards our client’s member’s financial situations. Would you like me to set up a meeting to discuss this further?”

“Right. Roger, got it. The park - you know, the big park? There’s a gazebo on the southwest corner. Meet me there in thirty minutes. Urgently. Ducks, angel! DEFCON level five! Or is it one? Whichever is the highest. Right? Mayday!” 

Crowley stopped on the third floor landing to catch his breath, then smiled at Ligur as he passed by. His coworker paid him no notice, talking on his own clandestine stairwell call.

“Yes, perfect, I’ll consult my calendar but I do think that date and time will work for me. No conflicts that I’m aware of. I look forward to speaking with you,” Zariah said, then hung up.

Crowley shoved his phone back in his pocket and took the stairs two at a time, pausing only when he stepped too heavy and more lightning bolts of pain ran up and down his spine.

He raced the Bentley out of its spot in the garage, grinning as the powerful engine roared to life. He jerked the wheel, taking the corner out to the street incredibly tight, choosing not to see the pedestrians who stared at him in horror. His car rumbled, vibrating in tune with the energy thrumming through his body. He was _Anthony J. Crowley_ , dammit, and nothing would stand in his way. He pictured pulling up to a spot next to the gazebo, tires squealing dramatically, while Zariah watched on, his mouth agape. His mind focused on the feel of the car and his new objective: get to Zariah as soon as possible.

Crowley came to a screeching halt one hundred yards later. 

“No! I will not have this! Not today!”

The Toyota in front of him honked at the Honda in front of them, whose driver answered with a rude gesture out the window. A chorus of horns followed, magnifying the headache Crowley felt approaching. Fuck. Traffic. _Fuck._

He tapped his hands on the steering wheel in time with the radio. Glanced at his watch. He scanned for another station, fed up with relentlessly chipper songs that grated on his nerves. The Bentley’s engine protested as they idled for longer than it liked.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” he said to the car, patting the seat beside him. He tapped the foot that wasn’t jammed on the brake pedal and tried not swear up and down at the congested streets. The park was five blocks away from Fourth Circle. Just five blocks. At this time of night, it was five solid blocks of cars moving at a max speed of 3 mph. He should’ve walked.

His phone buzzed.

**From:** Angel  
  
🏞️  
  
-Zariah  
  


Fuck. He’d called Zariah in a total panic and forced him out of a meeting or something, now he was going to be late. Crowley fired off a quick text in reply as the line of cars inched forward then stopped. He flipped the radio station again, then grimaced. 

_Can anybody find me somebody to love…_

He moved to adjust the dial when his phone buzzed again with a text from Zariah.

**From:** Angel  
  
😇  
  


Another buzz.

**From:** Angel  
  
😉  
  


Crowley's phone buzzed a third time as Zariah sent three separate texts with one emoji each.

**From:** Angel  
  
🥰  
  
-Zariah  
  


Crowley let the song play through to the end. He’d never admit to any living soul that he also sang along.

  
  
He could see Zariah, a beacon of white and ivory, standing in the middle of the empty gazebo. In the fading daylight, the angel’s hair and clothes shone brightly in contrast to the fading purple and blue tones of the park. Joggers passed by around him, but Zariah stood immobile, a bright star in the center of the park’s galaxy. Crowley orbited closer, scanning the park for signs of threats, not knowing what they’d look like but vigilant nonetheless.

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached. Zariah’s face opened like a night-blooming flower towards the moon.

“Okay, here’s the play,” Crowley said, skipping all the preamble and diving right in. “They’re planning a hostile takeover of Silver City. I have to convince the biggest shareholder to agree to the bid.” 

He paused for a breath, trying to remember the details from his meeting with Beelz. It seemed ages ago, though only an hour had actually passed. 

“I guess the person who owns a controlling stake is some weird reclusive billionaire? I don’t know, but it’s my job to convince them to vote for Silver City’s acquisition at the next shareholder meeting.”

He swallowed. Zariah was looking at him thoughtfully. His smile had dropped away and Crowley wished he could say something to put it back. But he couldn’t. “I have to convince them to let Fourth Circle take over Silver City, angel.”

“What?” Zariah finally seemed to come to life.

“They’re going to merge the companies.”

“Merge … with Silver City? But-” Now his brow was furrowed and he pouted. Crowley wanted to kiss him, wanted to wrap him in his arms and make the wrinkles on his forehead disappear. He circled around Zariah, darting glances at the now mostly-empty park around them. The joggers that remained in the park now wore neon shirts and reflective patches on their shoes. Crowley watched them going about their business unawares and sneered.

“Yeah, tell me about it. _But_ ,” he said, returning to face Zariah. “ _But_ city over here. It’s disastrous, angel.” He shoved his hands back in his pockets and schooled his face into something he hoped was sympathetic. His pulse was pounding in his ears and a new objective appeared in his mind.

“Management’ll be replaced, probably immediately, and likely the senior staff. That’s you, angel. Bonuses to Beelz and the gang, and salary cuts to everyone else. That’s me. Morale will plummet, the combined company will have a stranglehold on the market and when they drive up rates there’s nothing anyone will be able to do about it. Clients will hate the rocky transition as much as employees do. Service will suffer along with everything else.”

“I-”

“This is it, angel. The end of Silver City versus Fourth Circle. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“That can’t be,” Zariah said, wringing his hands. “It’s too - I can’t imagine our Board would allow-”

“Hostile, angel, remember? They’re going around the Board.” He couldn’t keep his hands in his pockets. He gestured widely with his arms, trying not to prowl in another circle around the gazebo. He compromised by pacing back and forth in front of Zariah across the length of the cement floor. “Fourth Circle is going directly to shareholders. All the others have agreed but for some reason the largest shareholder scares the pants off everyone else, so I have the dubious honor of selling them on the plan.”

“Hostile- but- no, they can’t-”

Crowley stopped short, mid-stride.

“Would I lie to you?”

Zariah didn’t answer. He met Crowley’s eyes briefly, then looked away. Crowley tore the sunglasses off his face and peered at Zariah in the fading light. Zariah wouldn’t meet his eyes.“Oh come on, angel! Would I lie to you?” Crowley’s heart kept pounding in his ears. He ignored it, shoving away all thoughts and reacting purely on instinct.

“Well, we are on opposite sides, Crowley!” Zariah said. His voice was high-pitched, plaintive. The voice he knew Zariah would use to get his way. In another life, he’d use it to get Crowley to bring him doughnuts on a Sunday morning. To get Crowley to move a bookcase for him. Crowley would do it, too. Every single time. Damn him, he’d do it. 

“You work for Fourth Circle! Your interests are directly opposed to mine, arrangements notwithstanding. You’re the one who came up with the arrangement in the first place! It could've been a ploy.”

“That’s what you think. After all this?” Crowley’s breath punched out of him all at once. “The product fair,” he said. “Rome. The bloody hotel.” He cocked his head to the side and fixed a withering gaze on Zariah. “I sat through _Hamlet_ with you, angel.”

“Well I don’t know.” Zariah fidgeted, playing with the little ring he wore on the smallest finger of his left hand. “You could’ve been … what is it they say, playing the long game?”

“I don’t think it’s usually part of a long game to get your mark in the closet and give them a blow-”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m sorry, Crowley.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, regarding each other in the dying light of the evening. Street lights lit up around the gazebo’s perimeter, bathing them in a pretty, romantic glow.

“Look, I’ll quit,” Crowley said, finally. “There's a company in New Jersey, Alpha Cen, umm, International, I think. Or something like that. I know a guy who knows a guy - I could get us both in with them, we'd never have to see either Gabriel or Beelz ever again.”

“Go to New Jersey? But our lives are here!” Zariah’s face pinched again, his voice raised. “And really, Crowley, New Jersey?”

“I don’t care!” he shouted, trying not to let the emotions spill out all over the place, and seeing them, too late, scattered about the floor. “My life is wherever you are, dammit. Alpha Cen whatever, I don’t care as long as we get away.” He gulped in a breath. Wondered how much of that it would be possible to take back if he needed to.

“Crowley, no,” Zariah said. He was wringing his hands in earnest now, clasped in front of him like he was holding onto an invisible rope that was barely holding his weight. “I can’t let you give up your life here.”

The words came out before Crowley could stop them. “My life? _What_ life?”

“Crowley-”

“I have, what? A job I hate, a stylish condo that is exactly the same as any other stylish condo anywhere else, a kickass car-” Crowley paused. “A kickass car, yeah. My car does kick ass.” He shook his head. “That’s neither here nor there. And plants that give me attitude. That’s it.”

“That’s a life, Crowley. I won’t let you give it up for me.”

“A life? It’s _empty,_ angel.”

“Crowley-”

“No, don’t start. It is! It’s completely empty and I was fine with that,” Crowley said, practically spitting the words at Zariah. “Totally, one hundred percent fine with it until you stuck your stupid umbrella over my head and smiled at me like I was worth smiling at.”

Zariah didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t stop and bat his eyelashes. Or smile that shy smile that said with his face what he couldn’t say with words. He put his hands down and balled them into fists. Squared his shoulders to face Crowley, who realized, stupidly, that Zariah wasn’t that much shorter than him when he wanted to be.

“But that’s not the whole story, is it? I’m sorry my dear, very sorry, but it’s not. You shy away from it, you change the subject when I ask, but there’s something else about you and I am guessing it means that you can’t very well lose your job and the benefits that come with it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do!” Zariah stepped forward, insisting with his body as much as his words.

Crowley shook his head and made an attempt at words that failed. He stepped back, then pivoted and turned it into a pace.

“You always say the same thing, Crowley,” Zariah said. His face was completely transparent. The utter conviction that he was right was plain to see on the lines around his mouth and the pinch of his forehead. His eyes showed exactly how much pain it caused him to be right. 

“You think you’re smooth … You think you’re completely fooling everyone with the way you lounge about and your sunglasses, but you don’t. I _see_ you, Crowley. And I see that you’re in pain.”

Crowley sputtered. “Yes, fine. I know. It’s a whole thing-”

“That’s what you say Crowley, but that’s not an answer!”

He turned back to Zariah, suddenly furious. “Yes, it _is_ ,” he said, with a bit of a hiss that he regretted but couldn’t help. He got in Zariah’s face, but Zariah stood his ground. Crowley went on, picking up steam as he ranted. 

“It’s a thing. It’s _one_ thing but it’s not _everything_. It’s just a thing where my spine isn’t right and it fucks up my eyes and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it except get shots every now and then and do stupid fucking exercises and complain to my plants because they’re the only ones who give a shit.”

“But I give a- I care. I do. Which is exactly why I can’t let you throw away what you have at Fourth Circle just for me.”

“That’s not your decision, angel.”

“It is! You can’t run away like this, Crowley,” Zariah said, pursing his lips in a way Crowley usually thought was cute but found infuriating at the moment. “Not for someone you’re just-”

“Someone I’m just _what_?”

Zariah looked away. He stared off in the distance at the landscape of the park. The trees surrounding the gazebo had blurred into a dense green mass of seductive darkness. He twisted the ring on his finger again, turning it round and round on his plump, manicured hand.

“Finish that sentence, angel,” Crowley growled, his voice low and deep.

“Someone you’re … well, fraternizing with. Every now and then.”

Crowley scoffed. “ _Fraternizing_? Who even says that?” 

“Whatever you wish to call it! Whatever _this_ is!”

Crowley stopped pacing. He stood at the opposite end of the gazebo from Zariah, who was looking at him with profound sadness. Crowley didn’t know what he wanted to do with it. Zariah’s face was pleading with him, but his words pushed Crowley away. Night birds trilled in the trees above his head. He took a deep breath, taking in the evening air and pushing it out. Crowley spread his arms out wide. His heartbeats roared in his ears as he put all his cards on the table.

“I don’t know what you think this is, _Anthony Zachariah_ , but I don’t have anyone else that I’m fraternizing with. I don’t _want_ anyone else. For me, it’s you. Any day of the week, it’s you.”

Silence. Crowley felt his objective slipping away the longer Zariah went without answering.

“Be sworn my love and I’ll no longer be a Capulet,” Crowley said, not caring how desperate he sounded. “Work with me, here, I’m letting you be Romeo again.”

Zariah’s eyes shone bright with tears. His hands stilled. But he didn’t answer.

“It’s you and me, angel,” Crowley said, softer. His heartbeats were slowing. The silence pressed in, filling in the gaps between heartbeats with a heavy presence. He put his hands in his pockets. “Alpha Cen. Or wherever. You and me.”

Zariah shook his head.

“Not anymore. It’s over.”

“Fine,” he said, making noises that weren’t quite words but were pulled straight from his chest. “ _Ngk_.” 

Crowley pulled on his sunglasses. The light had almost faded from the park entirely. Insects buzzed around the streetlamps that lit the gazebo, bathing it in a warm, inviting yellow glow. Zariah’s white hair looked golden in the lamplight, but his face was dark.

“Have a nice acquisition.”

Crowley walked away, not listening to the sound of his heart as it broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t name it in the text, but the condition referenced is AS. It basically means your body attacks your own spine, causing pain and stiffness in your joints. It can also cause problems with your eyes, making them more sensitive to light. Like Crowley says, it’s a whole thing.
> 
> New Jersey: it’s a lovely place! Parts of it, anyway! I’m not hating on New Jersey, I promise and I’m sorry.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, taking liberties with The Way Things Work for the sake of story. Here’s a glossary for this chapter:
> 
> Golden Parachute: Think of every outrageous CEO bonus that made you incredibly mad when you read about it. When a company tanks or is sold, high level executives can get bonuses or pensions no matter what happens to the rest of the employees.
> 
> Hostile takeover bid: Umm, so It’s basically when the board of directors of a company isn’t necessarily cool with a merger but the shareholders (owners) are. 
> 
> Realizing far too late that writing a fic that requires a glossary of terms was perhaps a bad idea. And yet if y’all knew me in real life, it’s quite possibly the most On BrandTM thing I could do.

Zariah walked towards a bright, shining city. The road he traveled was littered with sharp rocks that pierced the thin soles of his slippers. Darkness surrounded him, pressing close like hands all over his body. But the city ahead beckoned. He could make out white spires and silver turrets on buildings that jutted out from the dark landscape of the dream. On the highest tower, a single golden flag waved in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

His feet ached but the city looming over him grew no closer. An owl called out, but whether it was a dream owl or a bird outside his window, he didn’t know. He woke to a thin layer of chilly sweat all over his body and a confused ache in his chest.

Zariah sat for hours in his armchair while a book grew heavy on his thigh. The earl grey in his cup grew cold while he waited, not sure what he was waiting for. He drifted from the armchair to the kettle and back, feet moving without thought around piles of books and a stack of records he kept meaning to shelve or donate. He read the same pages over and over until the day ended and he returned to dreams.

That night he was walking towards the city again. The golden flag waved in an impossible wind and Zariah wasn’t sure why he could see it when the city was still so far away. His feet led him onwards, as if his body was being pulled forward by an invisible rope. When the owl called for him this time, he spun around to face it. In the other direction, an inky black void was all he could see. He peered into the darkness, but realized he wasn’t afraid of it. He waited for another call from the owl, but it never came. Zariah felt the pull of the city on his back as he took his first step away.

“Are you okay?” Anathema wiped the crumbs from her mouth.

“Hmm? Oh yes, dear, just fine.”

“Sure?”

Zariah just smiled. If he kept smiling, he could get through the day. Then the next day. And the next. He’d bought several dozen pastries and set them out in the break room again, much to the delight of the staff. While people milled about, chewing on sugary confections and grumbling about Monday blues, he watched and smiled until his cheeks ached.

He stared at his inbox. How long had he been sitting at his desk? Had he closed the door? Zariah rubbed his eyes.

His thoughts drifted. He couldn’t focus on any particular thought for long. If he did, everything would come to the surface all at once and he wouldn't be able to keep ignoring what had happened Friday night. As long as he drifted, he could keep the feelings at bay.

Emails flowed in, with subject lines like “Company Picnic: RSVP requested!” and “Optimize your new sales opportunities: PLEASE READ.” Zariah filed, sorted, and skimmed for several hours. He didn’t think of Crowley. Every time the pleading look on that beautiful face entered his vision, he looked away, desperate not to see it. He clicked and typed, going through the motions of a typical Monday as if his heart wasn’t missing. 

> To: AZFell@SilverCityFinancial.com  
> Subject: HAMLET, how was it?!  
> From: Robert L.  
> Message: Zariah! Sorry had to bail on Hamlet, was really looking forward to it. Heard you were able to use the tix regardless, good for u! Hope to catch up soon,  
> Rob

The feelings hit him all at once like a blow. His ribcage, hollow all day, suddenly felt too big for his body. The river of emotions he’d dammed the moment Crowley walked away from him burst through.

_I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go._

Zariah closed his eyes but it was too late. All he could see was Crowley’s red hair and hopeful smile as he waited under the theatre awning. How many times had he offered himself to Zariah, only to be rebuked? 

_It’s you and me, angel._

Zariah took a choking breath that came out as a sob. Stinging tears gathered behind his eyes and he hoped he’d remembered to shut the door because he couldn’t stop them from falling. He swiveled his chair away from his desk, vision blurring. Zariah pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he saw stars. Hot tears flowed past his hands onto his sleeves. He let them.

A loud ping broke through his silent grief.

> SKYPE MESSAGE FROM: Gabriel M  
> Anthony! See you in my office in ten? Gr8 thx

Zariah gulped in a breath of air, tasting his own tears and a jolt of fear. He breathed in and out, willing away the waves of shame crashing over him. Gradually, numbness settled in, this time with an aching behind his eyes.

Standing in front of Gabriel's office door, Zariah noticed for the first time that the hallway full of executive offices had unfrosted windows. He looked out at the city and felt calm. It was nothing like the city of his dreams. Tall shiny office buildings, church spires, and construction cranes jutted out onto the skyline like jagged teeth. The sky was a blue-grey, with formless, wispy clouds. Zariah schooled his features, reached into his coat to check the device in his pocket, then knocked.

“Anthony! Come on in.”

Zariah smiled, feeling like his face was about to break. “Gabriel, you wanted to see me?”

“I did! Fell, you’ve been at Silver City for how long? Twenty years?” Gabriel gestured for Zariah to sit, then immediately stood himself. He circled the large mahogany desk to stand directly in front of Zariah, towering over him. Gabriel folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in a display of casual posture that Zariah knew was anything but. He pushed away thoughts of Crowley’s many careful sprawls.

“Longer, actually.”

Gabriel nodded. “Good for you. So. Let’s get right to the point, shall we? Time is money, and money is what we do here.”

Zariah kept his mouth shut and his face blank.

“I’d asked you to keep an eye on Fourth Circle.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “See what they were up to.” He paused, waiting for Zariah to answer.

“Indeed you did,” Zariah said. He didn’t hesitate or stumble before betraying Crowley’s confidence. “It seems that Fourth Circle has been contacting our shareholders. At the general meeting next week, they’re going to vote on an offer.”

Gabriel leaned even further back and put on a smile that told Zariah he’d passed this test. “Good job Fell, well done. But call it what it is! A takeover bid!” Gabriel clapped his hands. He looked delighted, and that look on his handsome face was absolutely terrifying. “All’s fair in war and business, right?”

“I-”

“Good job though, Fell. Really. I wasn’t sure where your loyalties were, to be honest, but you’ve just proven yourself a Silver City man to the bitter end.”

“Yes, well-”

“Hopefully they’ll take that into consideration,” Gabriel said, now stroking his chin thoughtfully. He was still effectively blocking Zariah’s exit with his long legs and bulky frame.

“They?”

“The new management! Once the takeover goes through, everybody here’ll be chucked out the window.” Gabriel pointed to the floor-to-ceiling window behind his massive, curiously empty desk. He made a falling gesture with his hands, followed by a long whistle. “Splat!” He grinned.

“You don’t seem-” Zariah’s words failed.

“Worried? Of course not! I’m going to make an absolute killing. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? At the end of the day.”

“But-”

Gabriel looked at him, suddenly earnest. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure. How’s your contract? Might want to take a looksie.” He stood back up straight, and Zariah took the opportunity to stand as well. He wanted to be anywhere other than where he was at that moment. “Anyway, Fell, this deal is inevitable. The two of us, Silver CIty, Fourth Circle, we’re after the same thing!”

“Servicing our clients and providing a stable insurance market?” 

“No! For God’s sake, Fell. Get it together man. I told you, all is fair in war and business. And in order to win we need to eliminate the competition.”

“If you can’t beat them, join them? Is that right?” Zariah kept his face neutral, but he roiled with anxiety. He parroted Crowley’s words back at his boss and wanted to throw up.

“Exactly! See, you get it, Fell. And in any case it hardly matters to me, anyway. I’ve got a parachute! A golden one, at that.”

“I see,” Zariah said, very carefully not reacting. Gabriel’s face was somehow even more smug. “So when Silver City’s ownership changes hands you get a handsome payout, am I correct?”

“You got it! The pension alone is worth millions. Gotta look out for number one.” Gabriel pointed at himself with his thumbs. “Isn’t that right, Anthony?”

Zariah nodded and forced a smile. “Right. Indeed”

“But seriously, Fell, great job with that Fourth Circle rep. I knew you could handle him.”

Zariah nodded again. “Yes, I … handled him,” he said. “Crowley. I’m certainly very glad I was able to _handle_ him.” He cleared his throat.

Gabriel circled behind his desk and sat down, signaling an end to the meeting. “If I get a chance, I’ll pop in a good word for you.” He raised his eyebrows and looked pleased, as if he was doing Zariah a giant favor. 

“Much obliged.” Zariah shuffled towards the exit. “Shall I leave this open, or … “ He pointed to the door.

“Closed. Good talk!” Gabriel made a finger-gun gesture and pretended to fire on Zariah before turning away to look at his phone.

Zariah shut the door and breathed out. His mind was clear. He knew exactly what he was going to do now. It scared him senseless.

  
  


As he walked the halls back to his office, Zariah smiled and waved at coworkers. He felt a curious calm, not unlike the numbness of the past two days, but with the assurance that an end was within sight. He waved to Anathema from across a row of cubicles, gesturing for her to follow.

Once back in his office, Zariah closed the door.

“What’s going on, Z? Something is up with you,” Anathema said. She didn’t sit in the chair opposite his desk.

“I need you to keep what I’m about to say in the strictest confidence.” He didn’t sit either, but couldn’t stand still behind his desk. He paced back and forth, making zigzag patterns in the small footprint of his office. “This information cannot leave this room.”

“Okay…”

“I’m serious, my dear, if anyone finds out that I’ve told you-”

“What is it, Z?” Anathema put her hands on her hips. Her flowy blouse and full skirts were stylish and feminine, but she exuded a confident air that made it clear she was not to be trifled with. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

He sighed “Yes, I’m- well, I will be,” he said. “Fourth Circle is going to acquire Silver City. They’re going to try and merge the companies.”

“Oh. Thank goodness! I thought someone had died, Z. You had me really worried!”

“This _is_ worrisome, Anathema! Gabriel is jumping ship, and who knows what’ll happen. There will be major changes, my dear, and-”

Anathema waved her hand, dismissing his concerns. She sat down across from him and crossed her ankles. “It’s okay, Zariah. It’s not like they can fire us arbitrarily, with no reason.”

Zariah kept pacing. “They can! They can and they will, my dear.”

“If they do, they do,” she said. “It's okay.”

“But-”

She smiled. “Honey, I have a trust fund. I'm planning to retire at 35 to travel the world. I like my job, I really do, but it's just to get my parents off my back and make some spending money. No one wants to make a career out of managing claim operations at an insurance company. If they say they do, they’re lying and they’d much rather do something else, like raise award-winning tulips or whatever.”

He stared at her.

"Besides, Newt will be able to get something, I'm sure.” She picked at invisible lint on her skirt. He thought he saw the beginnings of a blush on her cheeks.

“Newt?”

“Yeah, we're, kinda together. It’s new, but…” She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek. “At first it was just sex, you know? But it turns out sex can be a lot more fun when you have feelings for the person, too.”

He felt his own face starting to flush, and struggled to tamp it down.

“So yeah, Newt’ll be fine. Even if he gets the ax, it’ll be okay, Zariah,” she said. “I know he's not great at his job, but he's a white man in technology. Trust me, he'll be fine.”

Zariah finally stopped pacing. Anathema’s complete lack of concern had taken some of the edge off his own anxiety. He gazed out his frosted window, unable to see anything but finding comfort in the act.

“What about you?”

“Not to worry about me, dear. I have an idea. If I can simply talk to the right people, then I believe I may be able to straighten things out.” Anathema looked skeptical but didn’t say anything. “In any case, I’ve got savings and stock options to cash out. Not to worry about me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She raised her eyebrows and pinned him with a penetrating look. “I meant with Crowley.”

“With- I don’t know what you- that is…”

“Don’t play dumb, Zariah! What happened? You were the happiest I’ve ever seen you, and don’t pretend you weren’t.” She pointed at him for emphasis. He realized he was wringing his hands, then clasped them behind his back. “You kept looking at your phone and smiling these little smiles, then sneaking off to go have lunch somewhere. I _knew_ you were up to something and it had to be him. Was it him?”

He sighed. “Yes, it was him.”

“And? Did you f-”

“Really, my dear! Keep your voice down!”

“Well?”

He cleared his throat and couldn’t look her in the eye, certain his entire face was red. “We, well, that’s neither here nor there.” He paused, suddenly feeling very tired. “It doesn’t matter, now. It’s over.”

Anathema waited, giving him time to compose himself. Mercifully, she didn’t press him for details. She gave him a small smile, and he felt grateful to have her as a friend.

“I said- well, I was awful,” Zariah said. He sat down in his chair heavily. “I thought I was doing the right thing, you see. Protecting him by ending it.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

Zariah opened his mouth to say it didn’t matter what he wanted, then realized how badly he did. He wanted to be with Crowley. Openly. He wanted to stroll through the art museum, holding his hand. He wanted to thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair while he lay curled in Zariah’s lap. More than anything, Zariah wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to kiss Crowley softly, and he wanted to kiss him rough. He wanted Crowley to stalk towards him with that mischievous gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his lips.

“Yes,” he said quietly. Anathema nodded. “But I suspect he may not be willing to see me again.”

“Does he want to be with you?”

Zariah closed his eyes.

_My life is wherever you are, dammit._

“Yes.” He felt tears building behind his eyes again. “He did, anyway.”

Anathema stood up. “Well that’s that, then. You should go after him. Or I will for you.”

“That’s very- but you can’t-”

She was smiling now. “Believe me, I can. I’ll find him, no sweat. Redhead in tight pants who walks around like he’s one second away from breaking into an awful disco dance ... he won’t be hard to find.”

Zariah blushed at the memory of those tight pants around Crowley’s ankles. “Please don’t, Anathema. I’ll … well, I’ll think of something.”

“Promise? You deserve to be happy, Z.”

“I promise,” he said, smiling an authentic smile for the first time in days. “But first, I need to pay a visit to Madame Tracy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [as always, this is me on tumblr - come say hi if you like](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! Will our lovable idiots finally get their act together? Will Gabriel get what's coming to him? (Yes, of course the answer is yes. It says "happy ending" on the tin, after all.)

"Another," Crowley said, pointing at his empty shot glass. The bartender took it and didn’t comment on Crowley’s sunglasses, messy hair, loose tie, or three-day stubble. He set his phone on the bar, face down.

“I didn’t mean to fall for him,” he mumbled to himself. The kid gave him another heavily-poured shot, and he raised it to the air in a toast to no one. He shared the bar with a handful of other lunchtime drinkers: business types like him, drowning their botched sales presentations in pint glasses; lunching ladies sharing a pitcher of carefree margaritas; and a group of tourists poring over a map while snacking on greasy chicken fingers.

His phone buzzed. Crowley picked it up mindlessly, forgetting he was busy drowning his sorrows. He hadn’t deleted “angel” from his contact list, because of course he hadn’t. A shot of adrenaline mixed with anger went through him when he saw the name. But it dissolved as quickly as it arrived when he read the message preview:

**From:** Angel  
  
Hello, this is Zariah. I suppose you know that.  
  


Crowley sighed. He knew he was going to read the message, but he allowed himself a moment to pretend otherwise. In another life, he’d deleted Zariah’s contact information. He moved to New Jersey and settled down with his plants. Maybe in that life, he changed professions altogether. He could be a mechanic. Or a landscaper. Open a bakery? Take acting classes? He shook his head, clearing away remnants of the lives he knew he wouldn’t lead. Taking a deep breath and the rest of the shot, he unlocked his phone.

**From:** Angel  
  
I hope you read this because it's important.  
  
And because I hope you are still willing to read words from me as I type them into my mobile device.  
  


The messages were coming individually as Zariah typed them. Crowley watched little dots forming on the bottom of the screen, and imagined Zariah sticking out his tongue as he pressed the buttons on his ancient phone. As always, he punctuated the text as if he were writing an email, but sent each statement in an individual text. He’d have to buy Zariah a new phone, Crowley thought, then realized how ridiculous it was to think about buying a phone for someone who’d broken up with you before you’d even had a chance to be together.

Crowley slid his empty glass to the back of the bar, and the bartender took it. He raised his eyebrows above his glasses, hoping the kid would get the hint. He’d been coming to this bar for ages, but the bartenders just seemed to get younger. The next buzz came as he raised the glass to his lips.

**From:** Angel  
  
I'd send an emotive character but it wouldn't do justice to all the things I've felt the past few days.  
  


Fuck. He set the shot back down on the bar and wiped a hand across his forehead. Now his chest ached and he could feel the pressure of tears forming behind his eyes. How fucking pathetic. Sitting in a bar in the middle of the afternoon on a work day, moping over someone he shouldn’t have had feelings for in the first place. He took the shot. Fire snaked down his throat, settling in his belly like he’d jammed a flaming torch down his throat. Performing pain for an audience.

He swallowed. When he closed his eyes, the x-ray after-images of bottles swam in his vision. The fire in his chest flared and he remembered to be angry. _Fuck all of this._ Fuck Beelz’s special project. Fuck his stupid job. Fuck his hips that ached every second of every day, even now as he perched on a hard wooden stool designed to go with the industrial decor with zero thought to how a human body might feel crammed onto it. And _fuck_ Zariah’s too-late remorse.

His phone buzzed again.

**From:** Angel  
  
If you are still reading this, please meet me at the shareholder meeting. Sit with me. I have a plan.  
  


He barked out a laugh. The shareholder meeting. That’s the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Normally he’d never go to something like that, but with his role in ending the war between Fourth Circle and Silver City, he’d be expected to show his face. Lucky him. The anger subsided, leaving a hollow pit in his stomach. He was tired. Tired of fighting not to care about his shitty job. Tired of ignoring the aching in his bones, and most of all, tired of aching for a man who wanted him but not enough to take a risk.

**From:** Angel  
  
Please Crowley, even if you cannot forgive me, sit with me so that I might help us both.  
  


“Fuck,” he said, out loud. He shook his head and jabbed at the delete button. He stared at the “Delete this conversation?” message but couldn’t force himself to hit “Yes.” He put the phone down.

“You’re better off without him,” a bearded man sitting across the bar said. “I’ve been there.” He raised his pint glass to Crowley in solidarity, but Crowley just stared at him blankly.

His phone buzzed again.

**From:** Angel  
  
I lied just now. I'm going to send some emotive characters that remind me of you.  
  


As each text came in, with one emoji each, Crowley’s face cracked into something that eventually turned into a smile. He watched the little images appear on his phone, and each one felt like an arrow piercing the armor he’d tried so hard to put on.

**From:** Angel  
  
🚗  
  
🖥️  
  
💀  
  


He squinted at the screen. Why had Zariah sent him a skull?

**From:** Angel  
  
🎭  
  


The comedy and tragedy masks. Ah, Hamlet. Crowley remembered changing outfits several times before settling on his blue suit. He’d pressed it and swiveled several times in front of the mirror before he left. Or maybe this was Zariah’s nod to his soppy Romeo and Juliet quote, as if Zariah hadn’t been the one to start it when he saw Crowley on the balcony. Be sworn my love, and all that nonsense.

**From:** Angel  
  
🦪  
  


Crowley snorted. Oysters. The first text he’d sent Zariah, while in Rome, doing as he was now, longing for something he couldn’t have. They’d been awful, the oysters. But he’d never tell Zariah that.

**From:** Angel  
  
🧹  
  


A broom. Crowley’s mouth twitched. His face flushed with heat as he remembered the taste of Zariah on his tongue. Swallowing him down in a grimy closet in a two-star hotel. Then bucking into Zariah’s hand as he moaned into his mouth.

**From:** Angel  
  
🌺  
  
🕊️  
  


The flower and the dove didn’t spark any specific memories, but he stared at them anyway. He felt hollowed out. He’d entered the bar full of acid and rage, but it’d been excised by emoji texts and shots of bourbon. Now he was just … empty. Empty and tired.

Crowley waved his credit card at the kid behind the bar, then scowled when he had to poke at an iPad to pay his bill. He made a vague symbol on the screen that looked vaguely like a J with his finger instead of his name, but didn’t give a damn. Crowley slipped off the bar stool with a groan and a pop as his knee took on weight.

As he was stuffing his phone in his back pocket, it buzzed one last time. This time he broke into a grin as he read it.

\---

Zariah asked his taxi driver to stay. The man shrugged. He stuck little white pods in his ears and started tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

The house he’d driven Zariah to was set back from the road via a winding gravel path. On either side of the path, vegetation ran rampant. Lilac bushes stood tall above Zariah’s head. They were long past bloom, but green and lush all the same. He recognized a crabapple tree by remnants on the ground. The tree’s roots were pushing up the grassy lawn, causing the topography of the yard to ripple on top of an underground ocean of roots. Whoever lived there had embraced the wildness of the place.

There was no doorbell, so he rapped his knuckles on the bright blue wooden door. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to tame the butterflies in his stomach.

“Coming!” A woman’s pleasant voice called out from the recesses of the house. Zariah smoothed the front of his waistcoat. He’d opted for his usual cream suit with a tan waistcoat and blue bowtie. It was the outfit he felt most comfortable in, though he’d received plenty of teasing about it from colleagues over the years.

The woman who opened the door had short, curly grey hair and a kind face. “Hello,” she said. “Are you with that other fellow?”

“Other? Oh-”

“Slim chap in tight pants? Wears sunglasses indoors? Bit nervous?” She leaned against the doorframe, completely at ease.

Zariah smiled and he was sure a little sadness crept into it. “Ah, that would be Crowley. No, I’m not with him.” He handed her his business card.

The woman gave him a look like she saw right through to the center of him. “Well, come on in, then.”

She led him through the front room of the house into a light, airy kitchen and busied herself making tea. The walls were cream-colored and filled with framed photos and children’s drawings. He could see through a glass door to the patio, which looked just as filled with greenery as the front had been. The grey-haired woman wiped her hands on a tea-towel and cleared one of the countertops. It appears he’d walked into the middle of preparations for an apple pie.

She set two cups of tea down on the kitchen table. He moved aside stacks of home-repair and Martha Stewart magazines to make room for them. The silence in the home was cozy.

“So, Mr. Fell, Principle Salesman, what can I do for you?”

“I- You own a controlling set of shares of Silver City?” he blurted out. The woman staring intently at him was a multi-millionaire, but she looked like anyone’s grandmother. She wore plain linen clothes and no makeup, but her eyes were playful.

“Is that surprising?”

“I- well-”

She smiled a sharp smile. “Yes, dear. I’ve been with Silver City since the beginning.”

“I see. May I ask … why?”

“Why?” She took a sip of her tea and considered him.

“Why do you … why Silver City?”

“I don’t think that’s the question you came here to ask, Mr. Fell, but I’ll answer it all the same,” she said. A grandfather clock chimed from somewhere in the back of the house. “Silver City helps people in difficult times in their lives. When they’re sick, they can see a doctor. When they lose a loved one, they don’t need to worry about expenses during the worst of the grief. If they get in an accident, or become disabled, the same applies. Is that what you came here to ask me, Mr. Fell?”

“I-” Zariah felt foolish, all of a sudden, even though she had answered him kindly. He pursed his lips and kept going. “But, do you really believe that?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. I used to. I truly did.“

“And now?”

“Now, I simply don’t know what to believe,” he said, and meant it. “Silver City is supposed to do as you say. We offer people insurance so they can go about their lives. Working, falling in love, having children if they wish, then one day retiring and finding new ways of fulfilling themselves. It’s why I started with the company all those years ago.”

He set down his tea and cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a rush of an emotion he couldn’t pin down. He remembered a younger version of himself looking up at the Silver City building with pride. 

“But it- it changed. Or I changed? Perhaps both, actually.”

The woman nodded. “Change is a part of life, Mr. Fell.”

“But-”

She shook her head, as if she knew his protests were hollow.

“I don’t like change. I know. It’s- I might be a coward.” He looked down at the kitchen table. It was a dark, worn wood, and slightly sticky. “But some things _shouldn’t_ change. The mission shouldn’t have changed.”

“And you have reason to think it has.”

He nodded, sure. “Yes, yes I do.”

“I see. Why do you stay, then?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He had no idea what to say. Why did he stay? Why hadn’t he taken Crowley’s offer? Was it cowardly to cling to a stable vision of your life, even as it took a shape you didn’t recognize?

“Your choices are yours, Mr. Fell. You don’t owe Silver City your allegiance any more than I do.”

“I- Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He paused, considering. The weight of his years at Silver City felt like a weight on his shoulders. For many years he’d been proud to carry it, but had never noticed how badly he’d been sagging. “I want to look back and be proud of-”

She shook her head again.

“Honey, if you keep looking back, you’ll miss what’s right in front of you.”

Zariah looked at her, then felt tears spilling down his cheeks. She offered him a tissue from somewhere without a word. He took it and didn’t feel embarrassed at all, though he’d tearfully confessed his ambivalence about his life in the kitchen of a woman with far more power and influence than he could dream of.

When he left, with a baggie of homemade cookies, Zariah felt light. The sunshine streaked through the trees, dappling shadows playing across his eyes. He felt at peace, a feeling he’d longed for without knowing it for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's imagined lives are from AUs I've read and enjoyed. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me I never mentioned that the fourth circle of Hell is for the greedy. According to Dante, anyway. Hence, Fourth Circle, LLC.
> 
> So I decided to add a happily-ever-after cuddle moment as an epilogue. The ending is what it is, but these two decided they needed to be even more soft, so I’m posting it as an extra chapter after this one. Bonus? Bonus!
> 
> Also, again, apologies for all the Romeo and Juliet....

Zariah checked in with the intern taking names at the door. She handed him a lanyard with Silver City's logo on it and a bag of what he understood was called "swag." Inside was an assortment of items he didn't need or want, branded with the Silver City name. He smiled brightly at the young lady and entered the ballroom. His stomach was doing flip-flops but he kept his face blandly cheerful.

Silver City had only half-heartedly embraced the trend of flashy shareholder meetings set by big name companies like Berkshire Hathaway. They'd moved the location to a swanky conference center instead of holding them in the boardroom at Silver City and added a free lunch. But other than that, this would be an hour's worth of extremely dry business news, board elections, and if Zariah was lucky, a rejected takeover bid by Fourth Circle.

He took a seat several rows behind Gabriel, who gave him a weirdly aggressive grin and a thumbs up. 

His hands wouldn't keep moving. They fluttered about in front of him, always moving or clasping something. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Crowley would come. He was sure of it. He had to be sure, otherwise it would mean he'd lost his chance at a future with Crowley. It was the type of future he'd given up on long ago: a future with deep kisses that made him forget to breathe, dinners out on the town in fancy clothes that would be ripped off afterwards, and lazy Sunday mornings spent wrapped in each other’s arms.

He wasn't sure.

Zariah glanced around the room, watching seats fill. He spied a motley crew led by a very short person in a black suit with ankle length trousers and a sash. It was an outfit that would've looked odd on anyone else but seemed to fit them like a glove. They had short black hair and a commanding presence.

Gabriel patted the seat next to him and they sat down, sneering and folding their arms. Was it possible that Gabriel looked nervous as they sat down beside him?

Zariah checked his pocket watch: Five minutes till the meeting.

At the front of the large room was a raised table with seats facing the audience. Each seat had a microphone, name plate, and vote-recording box. Those who held the most shares were seated in the middle of the table, drawing the attention of the room. On either side, a camera was pointed at the middle of the table and the view was projected onto giant screens for those seated in the back of the audience. A dozen shareholder seats were occupied by men and women wearing fancy suits and designer eyeglasses. But the focus was on the center seat, the one with the nameplate reading Frances M, majority shareholder. The chair was vacant.

The event host and minute-taker was Gabriel's long-suffering executive assistant. She nervously tapped the microphone and reminded everyone that the meeting would start in five minutes. Then she looked to Gabriel, seated in the audience, covered the microphone and mouthed "what should I do?"

Zariah didn't see Gabriel's response because the door at the back of the room opened and all eyes turned to see Crowley waltz down the aisle.

He was wearing a black pinstripe suit with a red tie and white shirt. He sauntered towards the stage, unhurried and seemingly unconcerned with the number of people who were turned toward him, clearly expecting someone else.

"Crowley," Zariah said, breathing a sigh of relief and allowing his face to break into its first real smile since he'd watched Crowley walk away from him at the gazebo.

Crowley did a mock salute towards the scowling person next to Gabriel. Ah, that would be Crowley’s boss Beelz, then. When he reached Zariah's aisle he paused and for the first time since he entered, looked unsure.

"Heya, angel."

"Hello there." Zariah smiled and clasped his hands together, finally still. He moved a seat over so that Crowley could take the one next to him. There was plenty of space between the chairs, but their thighs pressed together anyway. Zariah held his lips together firmly, unable to stop his face from breaking with joy at seeing Crowley again. He’d pulled the top half of his hair into a little ponytail, leaving the rest free. It kissed his neck in waves of crimson that Zariah wanted to reach out and stroke. He cleared his throat.

“Did you contact your friend? About the job in New Jersey?”

Crowley was wearing a pair of stylish modern sunglasses that Zariah hadn’t seen before. He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, but his face was open. He looked away for a second before turning back to face Zariah. “Naw.” Crowleys’ voice almost broke. “Stuff happened.”

“Oh?”

Crowley said softly, “Somebody sent me a message. Changed my mind.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

They faced each other, both smiling little smiles and Zariah forgot about everything else. The only sight in his world was Crowley’s thin lips, just barely curled up. He reached out and tentatively took Crowley’s hand. Crowley laced their fingers together and squeezed once.

“Ah, excuse me ladies and gentlemen, order please,” Gabriel’s assistant said over the microphone. It screeched loudly for a second and everyone winced, including the beleaguered woman onstage. She moved the microphone away and started again. “Ah, since we, umm, don’t have a full quorum as of the official start time, we’ll allow for a five minute delay. Please remain seated and umm, talk amongst yourselves. Thanks.” 

She shrugged and shot a panicked look at Gabriel, who Zariah could tell was fuming, even though he was only able to see the back of his head.

“How long do you think they’ll wait?” Crowley said, his voice low.

“I’m not sure,” Zariah whispered, though he wasn’t sure why.

“This was your plan?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much a plan as-”

“What?” Crowley shifted in his seat, but he kept their hands together. “I thought you had this all figured out?” He was hissing a little.

“Not exactly,” Zariah admitted.

“Not exactly? Angel, my reputation and, well, my entire _ass_ is on the line here.” Crowley jerked his head towards Beelz and the others who’d shown up from Fourth Circle. They were all giving him looks that could liquify concrete. “I don’t umm, _care_ , necessarily, but uh, they all see me sitting with you, so …”

“I know, Crowley. Just- please have faith.”

“Faith?” Crowley’s voice, face, and every limb of his body oozed skepticism. “Sod faith,” he muttered. “I’m out of a job.”

“Just wait and see what happens. Please. I asked you to trust me.” He paused, then turned back to the center of the room, where the majority shareholder of Silver City still hadn’t shown her face. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect from the mysterious woman in the wild, cozy house. She’d been so different from what he’d pictured. Though she was a multi-millionaire and wielded far more influence than anyone else he’d spoken with, he’d found that he trusted her without knowing exactly why.

“I spoke to her.”

“Who?”

 _“Her_.” Zariah nodded toward the stage, where the other shareholders were murmuring to each other while covering the microphones or tapping on their phones.

Crowley looked incredulous, but he still didn’t let go of Zariah’s hand. “The woman who owns Silver City? The one who kicked out the Fourth Circle folks after MorningStar? The one who is apparently a no show to a meeting that’ll determine the future of her company? _That_ her?”

“Yes _that_ her. I just- well, I told her some things and she listened.” Zariah furrowed his brow, not quite frowning, but slowly starting to wonder if his trust had been misplaced.

“After I talked with her, I thought she understood what I had to say. About the things I’d experienced and the way things- well…” Zariah looked back at Crowley, not sure he could explain. But Crowley simply squeezed his hand, letting him continue. “I told her what I felt about what was happening at Silver City. Honestly. She listened. And she agreed to- well-” Zariah took a breath. “I'm realizing now that what she actually said was-”

“She didn't actually agree to stop the takeover, did she?” Crowley’s voice was soft and kind. He didn’t blame Zariah for what was happening, or even if he did, he didn’t let it show. In that moment, Zariah loved him for it.

“No, not as such.”

Crowley grinned. “Well, it's been nice knowing you, Anthony Zariah Fell.”

“My dear, I-”

“Order please!” The microphone squealed again as Gabriel’s assistant took it out of its stand. “Since a majority ownership is not present, a quorum cannot be established and the meeting will be delayed. You're all dismissed.” She cleared her throat and shot a panicked look toward the crowd. A murmur went through the audience and the shareholders at the table.

“No, no, no. All we’re missing is one person!” Gabriel had stood and was stalking towards the stage. His assistant sat down, clearly terrified, but held her ground. “The meeting must continue,” he said, with the most intimidating smile Zariah had ever seen.

“This guy is right,” Beelz said, their voice steely and firm. They strolled towards the shareholder table and stood next to Gabriel, arms folded. Gabriel took a small step back. “There is important business to discuss on the agenda. It is written.” They held up the flyer containing the formal agenda.

Zariah and Crowley looked at each other.

“I can’t- the quorum can’t be established without a majority of the shares being present.” Gabriel’s assistant stammered.

Gabriel and Beelz both glowered, one towards the host and one towards the empty chair.

Zariah dropped Crowley’s hand. He stood up and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, umm, I believe the company bylaws stipulate the conditions under which a shareholder meeting can commence. Do they not?”

Gabriel and Beelz swiveled.

“That’s correct,” the assistant said. She banged her ceremonial gavel and her voice gained a note of authority it hadn’t had a minute ago. “Company bylaws stipulate that the majority shareholder must be present or arrange to vote by proxy. Otherwise the meeting agenda cannot commence.”

A tense silence followed, as Gabriel glared at Zariah, Beelz glared at everything, and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Zariah stood his ground, smiling cheerfully. He clasped his hands in front of himself and rocked forward on his heels.

“Well, if it’s in the bylaws, I mean,” Crowley said, standing up. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Then it’s in the bylaws.” Beelz’s eyes narrowed.

“Everyone is dismissed until such time as the meeting can be reconvened. Thank you!” Gabriel’s assistant banged the gavel and fled out the side door.

Crowley turned to Zariah, awestruck.

“Was that … “

“That was her answer, I suppose. The decision was … not to decide?” Zariah said, unsure. He shrugged and stood in the aisle while the attendees filed out of the room, murmuring and typing messages on their phones until only a handful of people remained.

Gabriel and Beelz approached. Gabriel wore a wide, terrible smile and Beelz scowled.

“Well that was a disaster,” Gabriel said, cheery.

“What the fuck, Crowley?” Beelz said, punching him on the arm.

“Ahh, yeah, well you see-” Crowley started, then his speech devolved into syllables that weren’t even the beginnings or endings of words.

“You’re fired.”

Crowley blew out a breath of air. “Yeah, that’s a fair cop.”

“You too, Fell.” Gabriel had the nerve to look concerned as he said this.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Gabriel.”

“What?”

Zariah looked up at Gabriel but didn’t move. “I think you’ll find I’ve _retired_.”

“But you're not old enough to-”

“Actually, I can,” Zariah said in a cheerful tone, then realized a beat later that his cheer was genuine. This hadn’t gone at all like he’d expected, and he didn’t care. He looked over at Crowley, whose face was a mixture of confusion and pride. He felt such a surge of affection for him that it almost bowled him over.

He turned back to Gabriel who was staring at him with a look of confusion that could easily be mistaken for constipation.

“I took your advice, you see! I went to see Madame Tracy. In Human Resources? We went over my employment contract. There's no age specified in the paperwork I signed back in the late 80s. After 30 years of service, which I have provided faithfully, I can retire with a full, rather generous pension.”

“No, I’m firing you,” Gabriel practically shouted. “Shut your stupid mouth, so I can fire you.”

“I really don’t think you want to do that.”

“And why’s that?” Gabriel folded his arms and leaned towards Zariah, looming over him.

Zariah smiled. “I took another piece of your advice, you see, Gabriel,” he said calmly. “I got close to a two-bit hack, hit record, and he never suspected a thing! Because, well, look at me.” Zariah gestured at himself, indicating his old-fashioned ivory suit, bowtie, and comfortable loafers. He’d worn a white pressed shirt and his favorite blue waistcoat today, to go with his blue pocket square. It rather brought out the color in his eyes, he’d thought. He knew it was exactly the sort of outfit Gabriel would mock or call “stuffy”.

Zariah smiled again, this time unable to keep the amusement off his face. He didn’t dare glance at Crowley, who he could tell was still gaping at him in a way that made him look unbearably cute.

“I don’t know what you’re-”

Zariah pulled a cassette voice recorder from his trousers pocket that must’ve been at least fifteen years old. He held it up to Gabriel’s face and pressed play. Gabriel's voice was unmistakable, even played on the scratchy speakers of Zariah's ancient recorder.

_“...Once the takeover goes through, everybody here’ll be chucked out the window. Splat!”_   
_“You don’t seem-”_   
_“Worried? Of course not!”_

Zariah pressed the fast-forward button and the little tape whirred. Gabriel’s face had turned to stone. He pressed play again.

_“...in any case it hardly matters to me, anyway. I’ve got a parachute! A golden one, at that.”_   
_“I see. So when Silver City’s ownership changes hands you get a handsome payout, am I correct?”_   
_“You got it! The pension alone is worth millions. Gotta look out for number one.”_

Zariah returned the recording device to his pocket and clasped his hands. “Somehow I doubt you’d want the Board hearing that, would you? Let alone the media,” he said. “If you want to stay on at Silver City, that is. And since Fourth Circle isn’t acquiring Silver City, your parachute is closed.”

Gabriel sputtered. His face had turned red with rage and he balled his fists at his sides. Next to him, Beelz was grimacing but they couldn’t hide a glint of amusement in their eyes. 

Zariah stepped away from the scowling executives, turning toward the exit. He glanced at Crowley, who was looking at him with wide-eyed affection and surprise. Crowley didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and he was leaning weirdly on one of the chairs where they’d been sitting.

“Oh, one more thing,” Zariah said.

“What now?”

Zariah smiled widely at Crowley, then deliberately took his hand.

“Do you know, Silver City’s retiree benefits are also quite generous to Domestic Partners?”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline, as did Gabriel’s. It didn’t seem possible for Beelz’s scowl to get any deeper, but it did.

Zariah beamed at the befuddled group standing in the middle of the empty conference room. “And since Crowley has just been terminated, I believe that’s an event which qualifies him to be added to my plan. I’ll have someone send over the paperwork.”

He gently pulled Crowley towards him.

“I believe you said, what was it? _All's fair in war and business?_ ” He smiled at Crowley, whose expression was that of a deer who was very much in love with the headlights he was staring into. 

“I'd like to think all is fair in _love_ and business.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand, brought it to his lips for a quick kiss, then released it and walked away.

Gabriel, Beelz and Crowley stared after him for several long moments.

“Ha!” Crowley shouted, finally coming to his senses. He gestured widely, pointing enthusiastically at both Beelz and Gabriel. “ _A plague on both your houses_!”

Zariah gently pulled him away from their shocked former bosses. He shook his head as Crowley grinned and whooped, but couldn’t help the smile on his own face. A plague on both your houses, indeed.

They walked, side by side, out the conference center to the street. Without thinking about where he was going, Zariah let Crowley lead him. They didn’t speak. Zariah’s thoughts were swirling and his heart was pounding, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

Crowley stopped short, and Zariah blinked, noticing his surroundings. He’d led Zariah to a parking garage and was standing awkwardly in front of the ancient beast of a vehicle he’d been so proud to show Zariah. It seemed like such a long time ago that Crowley had been so eager to swoop in and rescue him at the disastrous financial products fair.

Zariah took a deep breath. The confrontation with Gabriel had caused a rush of adrenaline to course through him, but the conversation he needed to have with Crowley was far more important.

“Crowley, after everything, I-” he started, then faltered. He wrung his hands, then squared his shoulders. “Of course I’ll honor what I just said to Gabriel.”

“What are you talking about, angel?” Crowley still wore his sunglasses, so Zariah couldn’t see his expression. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets again, and was leaning back into his car. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Crowley was the picture of cool.

Zariah swallowed. “I’ll fill out the paperwork. To have you added to my plan, it’s the least I can do after you being fired. But we don’t have to- if you can’t forgive-” 

He bit his lip, suddenly filled with nerves. His eyes started to fill and he blinked furiously, willing himself to keep it together.

“I want you to know that I mean what I said in my last mobile phone message. I was holding onto a version of my life that I was accustomed to not because it's what I wanted but because I was afraid and I-”

He didn't have a chance to finish because Crowley was kissing him. Zariah kissed Crowley back urgently, flinging his arms around Crowley’s thin waist. He pressed Crowley into the side of the car, slotting his thigh in between Crowley’s parted legs. Against his lips, Crowley made a whining noise but kept kissing him. Crowley’s hands gripped the sides of his face and his tongue explored Zariah’s mouth.

When Zariah pulled back to breathe, he looked at Crowley’s stunned face. His sunglasses were askew, exposing one of his gorgeous brown eyes. Some of his hair had come loose and was trailing down his face in messy waves. He was absolutely perfect.

Zariah giggled, then remembered something.

“Oh! Crowley, could you give me a lift?”

“What?”

Zariah pulled back, though Crowley didn’t seem to want to let him get far. He checked his pocket watch. 

“Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere, angel, just tell me where,” Crowley said. He nuzzled Zariah’s jaw, pressing light kisses just above his collar. 

Zariah shivered. He smiled and said, “The Ritz, please.” He couldn’t help a pleased wiggle of his shoulders at the surprised look on Crowley’s face. “I, well, there should be a reservation in my name. For two. Coming up here in about a quarter of an hour.”

Crowley opened his mouth but nothing came out for several seconds. Then his brain seemed to catch up and he grinned.

“Better get moving, then,” Crowley said. He led Zariah around to the passenger door and opened it with a flourish, holding the door with a gentlemanly bow. “After you, angel.”

  
  
Zariah excused himself to use the washroom after the main course. He splashed water on his face and wiped it with a towel proffered by the attendant. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He saw a soft, middle-aged man with a smile that wouldn’t leave his face. A man whose future suddenly held far more joy than it had the day before. 

When he returned to the table, Crowley had surprised him by ordering a bottle of champagne. Two glasses had already been poured and as he sat down, Crowley handed him one with a fond smile.

“I should’ve known you had it in you, angel,” he said.

“In me to what?”

“Be a clever little bastard, that’s what,” Crowley said, and his voice held such affection Zariah thought he might burst from hearing it. 

Zariah blushed furiously, then glanced shyly at his companion. “And you were brave enough to hope for a future better than the one you had. Better than the one we both had,” he said. “Shall we toast?” He held up his glass and Crowley clinked it.

“To us,” Crowley said.

“To us.”

Zariah took a sip, but glanced playfully over at Crowley as he did. Crowley topped up both their glasses and as he leaned over, Zariah pulled him in for a kiss. Crowley tasted of champagne and happiness.

“You know,” Zariah said, as they pulled apart, both a bit dazed.

“Mmmmm?” Crowley murmured, a soppy smile on his face.

“In addition to the late lunch reservations, I made some other arrangements as well.” Zariah patted his lips with his napkin and glanced down at the table. He pursed his lips. 

Crowley made another questioning sound deep in his throat. It was something that resembled a question but was definitely not an actual word.

“In addition to a restaurant, I do believe this is a hotel,” Zariah said, with a smile and a sideways glance.

Crowley choked on his champagne. He recovered enough to stutter a few syllables that weren’t really words at all, but their meaning was clear. His face had turned as red as his tie, and he wasn’t able to form a full sentence until long after the waiter had been summoned to bring the bill.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for anyone and everyone who has read this and especially those who have commented - you truly have given me the courage to keep going with this silly little love story. Every single comment has really and truly bolstered my confidence and given me great joy. It means more to me than I can say. Thank you! <3

[Epilogue]

Crowley didn't open his eyes. He drifted to awareness slowly, feeling his senses come to life in phases. His hands were twined in the thick cotton bed sheets Zariah loved. He unfurled his fingers and felt the soft texture of the fabric against his skin. He remembered clutching it desperately the night before. 

The pillow he kept under his knees had shifted to one side, so his left hip and knee were tweaked. They ached, but not enough to move, not yet. He breathed in, smelling Zariah's oatmeal-lavender shampoo on his pillow. He'd teased him about it, then admired how fluffy it made Zariah’s soft white curls. He remembered combing his fingers through his hair, then trying not to pull too hard as he held the back of Zariah's head.

Through the open window, Crowley heard birds chirping. They might be splashing about in the birdbath he'd gotten after visiting the botanical garden. Zariah had clapped his hands together when he saw one and given him that _look_. Soon after, a heavy cement bath had appeared in their back garden, full of water and happy splashing birds. Insects would be buzzing about as the sun rose, pollinating his wildflowers.

Zariah wasn't in bed, but Crowley could hear him puttering about downstairs. He opened his eyes and watched the ceiling fan drift in lazy circles. When Zariah started humming a tune, terribly off key, Crowley covered his face with his arm and chuckled. His body felt heavy as he eased into awareness of it. All the sensations he felt grounded him, allowing his new life with Zariah to grow roots in his body as well as his soul.

Footsteps sounded on the creaky loft stairs and the unmistakable scent of coffee drifted towards him. Crowley smiled under his arm.

“You must be exhausted, poor dear,” Zariah said. He set a saucer and mug on the bedside table, then perched on the side of the bed.

Crowley uncovered his face and smirked. “And whose fault is that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zariah replied, with a prim set to his lips and a twinkle in his eye. He’d dressed in a cream jumper and tan slacks, but wasn’t yet wearing shoes. He crossed his ankles, and Crowley noticed a hole in one of his blue socks.

“Mmmmhmmm,” Crowley said. He sat up and took a sip of coffee. It was incredibly strong with a hint of cream. Perfect. The sheets fell away from his body, and Zariah eyed his naked torso appreciatively.

“Was thinking I might drive you into town. Get pastries at the French place?” He raised an eyebrow, knowing Zariah couldn’t resist a good brioche. Or maybe they’d have crepes. 

Crowley set aside the coffee carefully. As soon as it was settled on the nightstand, Zariah leaned in and covered him with kisses. “Mmmph,” he said, putting his arms around the angel. His angel. Zariah kissed him until he was breathless.

“You taste like tea,” he said, smiling. 

“I’ve already had two cups, darling.” Zariah had pulled back the sheets and was running his hand down Crowley’s side. He cupped Crowley’s arse and bit his lip, playful.

“Mmm, well you won’t get any pastries if you keep that up,” Crowley said. He ran a thumb over Zariah’s teasing bottom lip. “Gotta pick. Me or brioche.”

Instead of responding, Zariah took Crowley’s thumb in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it suggestively. He took it in his mouth all the way to the knuckle, then released it with a wet pop. All thoughts of bread left Crowley’s mind, replaced by delicacies of a very different sort. 

Zariah grinned, then captured Crowley in a rough kiss. Crowley slid down the headboard so Zariah could straddle him. He moaned as Zariah kissed a wet line down his neck to his chest. Finally, Zariah looked back up at him. His white hair was tousled and his pink mouth was swollen and glistening.

“I think that we both know, my darling, that I’ll have you _and_ the brioche,” Zariah said.

And he did.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is me on Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


End file.
